THE  LADDER 
TO  THE  STARS 

JANE  H.  FINDLATER 


ftf- 


fbe   LADDER   to 
THE  STARS 


The  LADDER  to 
THE  STARS 


By 
JANE    H.   FINDLATER 


D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK 

1906 


COPYRIGHT,  1906,  BY 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Published  October,  1906 


THE    LADDER    TO    THE    STARS 


CHAPTER   I 

IT  was  a  very  warm  Sunday  afternoon  in  early  sum- 
mer, and  Miriam  Sadler  had  walked  all  the  way  from 
Hindcup-in-the-Fields  to  Hindcup  Manor,  to  call  upon 
her  Aunt  Susan  Pillar,  Lady  Joyce's  housekeeper.  She 
approached  the  Manor  by  the  back  avenue,  of  course ; 
but  even  this  entrance  was  imposing  enough.  Miriam 
loved  the  century-old  beech  trees,  their  boughs  cour- 
tesying  to  the  earth,  that  bordered  each  side  of  the 
road;  under  their  green  shade  the  girl  stopped,  and 
turned  her  remarkable  face  up  to  gaze  into  the  flicker- 
ing depths  above  her.  After  the  glare  of  the  mid- 
day sunlight  it  seemed  almost  dark  here  under  the 
trees.  She  noticed  the  splendid  spring  of  the  tree  boles 
skyward.  "  Once  they  were  little  beechnuts,  hidden 
in  the  earth  like  a  grave,"  she  said  to  herself ;  "  but 
they  pushed  up  through  the  sods  and  grew  and  grew, 
and  now  see  their  splendid  growth  and  stature ! " 

Miriam  was  fond  of  words  for  their  own  sake,  quite 
apart  from  any  meaning  they  might  have — so  fond  of 
them  that  sometimes  alone  in  the  back  kitchen  at  home 
she  would  repeat  over  and  over  to  herself  strings  of 
words  for  nothing  but  their  sound — •"  Great  and  glori- 

I 


THE     LADDER 

ous  and  supercelestial,  evanescent,  elemental,  majes- 
tic, mystical,  and  melodramatic  " — they  rolled  off  the 
tip  of  her  tongue  like  a  tune.  But,  as  you  see,  her 
thoughts  were  busy  as  well  as  her  lips.  She  was  al- 
ways thinking,  thinking,  thinking — unformed,  chaotic 
thoughts  that  led  nowhere.  This  afternoon  the  still- 
ness under  the  beech  trees  was  almost  oppressive.  It 
was  so  hot  that  all  the  world  except  Miriam  seemed 
to  have  gone  asleep.  Far  away  in  the  meadows  the 
sleepy,  slow-running  river  kept  up  a  gentle  reminder 
of  its  flowing,  and  some  rooks  in  the  elm  trees  in  the 
park  gave  sleepy  caws  every  now  and  then ;  but  other- 
wise there  was  no  sound  or  murmur  of  sound.  As  she 
came  into  the  courtyard  of  the  Manor,  the  stable  dog 
rushed  out  from  his  kennel  with  a  startling  rattle  of 
his  chain  and  a  tremendous  bark.  A  kitchen  maid 
came  sleepily  to  the  door,  blinking  in  the  afternoon 
sunshine,  and  greeted  Miriam  to  a  cold  welcome ;  she 
was  no  favorite  in  the  servants'  hall. 

"  It's  you,  Miss  Sadler ;  yes,  Mrs.  Pillar  is  in  her 
sittin'  room ;  will  you  come  inside  ?  "  she  said,  holding 
open  the  door  to  let  her  pass  in.  A  garden  boy  had 
appeared  to  see  what  the  dog  was  barking  at,  and 
Miriam  saw  that  he  and  the  kitchen  maid  exchanged 
a  wink  at  her  expense.  She  did  not  mind ;  but  youth 
is  youth,  and  even  a  garden  boy's  wink  wasn't  alto- 
gether pleasant.  Miriam  laid  down  the  yellow  cotton 
parasol  she  had  carried,  and,  as  she  went  along  the 
passage  to  the  housekeeper's  room,  began  to  pull  off 
her  white  thread  gloves,  which,  owing  to  the  heat, 
were  adhering  firmly  to  her  hands. 

"Lor',   Miriam!"  cried  Aunt  Pillar,  jumping  up 

2 


TO     THE     STARS 

from  her  armchair  where  she  had  been  having  a  well- 
earned  nap,  "  to  think  of  you  walking  across  the  fields 
on  such  a  warm  afternoon  as  this !  Whatever  pos- 
sessed you  ?  " 

Miriam  sat  down  by  the  round  table  which  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  with  a  final  tug  got  off  the 
damp  thread  gloves  and  laid  them  on  the  table.  A 
weariness  of  mind,  not  of  body,  overcame  her  for  a 
moment  at  this  reception. 

"  Oh,  I  do  not  know ;  I  like  the  exercise  and  the 
freshness  of  the  fields  and  the  quiet,"  she  explained. 

Aunt  Pillar  surveyed  her  niece  disapprovingly, 
pursing  her  lips  together. 

"  It's  a  blowzing  walk,  take  it  any  way  you  please," 
she  said ;  "  but  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  and  how  is  sister?  *J 

"  Oh,  mother  is  well,  thanks,"  said  Miriam  absently. 
She  took  up  one  of  her  gloves  and  began  to  pull  out 
the  fingers  of  it. 

"  I  do  wish  you  weren't  so  absent-minded  like," 
said  Aunt  Pillar  impatiently.  She  was  a  little  cross 
at  being  wakened  from  her  delicious  Sunday  nap  by 
a  girl  who  apparently  had  nothing  to  say,  and  who 
looked  as  if  her  thoughts  were  a  hundred  miles  away. 
Aunt  Pillar  crossed  and  uncrossed  her  fat  feet  on  the 
footstool  with  ill-concealed  impatience,  and  smoothed 
out  the  creases  from  her  black  silk  skirt. 

"  I  have  come  to  ask  you  something,  aunt,"  the  girl 
said  at  last,  with  a  desperate  effort.  "  That  is  why  I 
have  come.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  myself." 

"  There's  little  else  that  young  persons  ever  care 
to  talk  about — those  I've  known,"  said  Aunt  Pillar, 
not  very  graciously.  But  Miriam  had  never  expected 

3 


THE     LADDER 

a  gracious  reception.  Her  rather  heavy  features  were 
not  of  the  kind  that  quickly  betray  emotion;  no  one 
could  have  guessed  all  she  felt  at  that  moment. 

"  The  fact  is  that  I  want  more  education,"  she  said 
quietly.  "  I  have  such  a  craving  for  truth  and  knowl- 
edge, aunt,  and  I  did  not  learn  much  at  Miss  Cumper's ; 
all  she  taught  me  was  superficial  and  provincial.  I 
wish  to  go  to  London  to  study,  and  I  have  no  money — 
will  you  help  me  ?  " 

Nothing  could  well  have  surprised  or  displeased 
Aunt  Pillar  more  than  this  request.  Intellectual 
woman,  and  her  place  in  the  scheme  of  things,  did 
not  appeal  to  Aunt  Pillar.  In  her  eyes,  woman  was  a 
marrying,  child-bearing  creature,  or  else  a  house- 
keeper; she  laughed  to  scorn  any  further  pretensions 
of  her  sex. 

Putting  on  a  pair  of  spectacles,  she  gazed  at  her 
niece  for  a  full  minute  before  making  any  answer. 
During  that  minute  Miriam  counted  the  heavy  beating 
of  her  own  heart  in  horrid  trepidation.  At  last  Aunt 
Pillar  took  off  her  spectacles,  replaced  them  in  their 
case,  laid  the  case  on  a  table  that  stood  by  her  chair, 
and  spoke: 

"  Well,  no,  Miriam,  that  I  won't.  You've  had,  in 
my  opinion,  education  enough  to  ruin  your  prospects 
already,  and  I  won't  be  the  one  to  help  you  to  more. 
It's  no  kindness." 

"  My  prospects !  "  cried  the  girl.  "  What  pros- 
pects ?  " 

"Your  prospects  of  a  good  husband — what  every 
young  woman  should  look  out  for;  what  else  would 
you  be  after  ?  " 

4 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Aunt  Pillar,"  she  cried,  rising  in  her  excitement, 
and  resting  her  hand  on  the  table,  "  Aunt  Pillar,  I'm 
made  for  better  things  than  that !  "  Her  voice  trem- 
bled with  emotion,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  the 
hand  which  rested  on  the  table  shook. 

"  Better  things !  "  Aunt  Pillar  ejaculated.  "  Better 
things,  indeed!  The  girl's  crazed  to  speak  such  non- 
sense ! " 

"  I  am  not  crazed,  or  even  conceited ;  I  know  only 
too  well  the  depths  of  my  own  ignorance.  I  must  have 
education — and  then  I  shall  surprise  you  all." 

"  You  surprise  me  already,  Miriam,  with  your  silly 
pride,  and  talking  wild  nonsense  like  that,"  said  Aunt 
Pillar.  "  What  you  have  to  do  is  to  settle  down  in 
your  mother's  house,  and  take  the  first  good  man  that 
asks  you.  You'll  never  get  one  with  book-learning; 
there's  nothing  the  men  dislike  more — mind  you  that." 

"  Well,  if  they  do,  they  will  never  like  me,  for  I 
have  been  born  that  way,  and  I  must  follow  my  bent," 
said  Miriam.  She  paused  again,  and  then  broke  out 
with :  "  Oh,  aunt,  don't  refuse  to  help  me !  I've  never 
asked  a  penny  of  you  before ;  but  it's  life  I  am  asking 
of  you  now — life  and  hope !  " 

Aunt  Pillar  was  seriously  alarmed  now.  In  her  es- 
timation nothing  except  an  unhinged  brain  could  pos- 
sibly account  for  all  this  nonsense.  She  rose  from  her 
chair  and  stood  confronting  her  niece ;  her  short 
portly  figure  in  its  black  silk  gown  seemed  the  very 
epitome  of  what  she  was,  a  decent,  vulgar-minded 
Englishwoman  of  the  lower  middle  class.  Strange 
that  tragedy  should  center  round  such  a  figure ;  but  it 
did.  To  Miriam  the  tragedy  of  that  refusal  could  not 

5 


THE     LADDER 

be  exaggerated ;  it  meant  to  her  the  loss,  as  she  had 
said,  of  life  and  hope. 

As  the  aunt  and  niece  stood  thus  facing  each  other 
in  silence,  a  sound  of  footsteps  came  down  the  passage, 
and  a  light  little  tap  sounded  on  the  panel  of  the  door. 
In  a  moment  the  whole  expression  of  Aunt  Pillar's 
face  had  altered. 

"  That's  some  of  the  Family,"  she  whispered  to 
Miriam.  It  must  have  been  by  some  subtle  inner  sense 
that  this  was  revealed  to  her,  for  one  knock  is  after 
all  much  like  another;  she  ran  to  open  the  door  and 
usher  in  the  august  intruders. 

"  Why,  Miss  Eve,  is  this  you  ?  and  am  I  to  have  the 
honor  of  a  visit?  I'm  sure  I'm  very  proud,  indeed, 
Miss  Eve.  Will  you  step  in?  and  this  is  Mr.  Alan 
Gore  too;  step  in,  sir,  I'm  very  pleased  to  see  you," 
she  exclaimed  all  in  a  breath.  "  And,  Miss  Eve,  this 
is  my  niece,  Miriam  Sadler,  who  has  walked  over  to 
see  me  this  afternoon ;  it  will  be  a  great  day  for  her, 
getting  a  sight  of  you,  I'm  sure;  girls  like  her  have 
few  advantages.  Come  here,  Miriam,  and  speak  to 
Miss  Eve." 

She  spoke  for  all  the  world  as  though  her  niece  were 
still  a  child  in  a  pinafore,  instead  of  a  young  woman 
of  four-and-twenty. 

Miss  Joyce  evidently  meant  to  be  affable,  for  she 
held  out  her  hand  to  the  girl,  and  asked  if  she  had  not 
had  a  very  hot  walk. 

"  No,"  said  Miriam,  "  I  like  the  walk." 

Miss  Joyce  sat  down,  and  begged  Aunt  Pillar  to  re- 
sume her  seat,  which  she  did  with  some  show  of  re- 
luctance. The  man  who  had  come  in  with  Miss  Joyce 

6 


TO     THE     STARS 

looked  round  to  find  himself  a  seat,  too,  and  Aunt 
Pillar  told  her  niece  to  fetch  a  chair  for  Mr.  Gore. 
Miriam  lugged  out  a  great  old  chair  from  a  corner 
for  him.  He  thanked  her  and  sat  down,  wondering 
what  he  would  say  to  this  heavy-featured  young 
woman. 

"  We  have  come  to  see  the  old  lead  cistern  which 
lives  somewhere  in  these  regions,"  he  said.  "  I  dare- 
say you  have  often  seen  it — it  has  curious  figures 
carved  on  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  love  the  beauty  of  it,"  said  Miriam. 
The  young  man  looked  up  sharply  at  her  words. 

"  Are  you  interested  in  such  things  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Surely,  everyone  must  be ;  they  link  us  on  to  the 
famous  past,"  she  answered.  He  looked  at  her  even 
more  curiously,  and  leaned  forward  as  he  said : 

"  The  famous  past  ?  Do  you  think  the  past  is  any 
more  famous  than  the  present?  I  incline  to  think 
this  is  the  accepted  time,  this  is  the  day  of  salvation." 

It  was  almost  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Miriam 
had  heard  anyone  start  an  abstract  subject  of  conver- 
sation. She  drew  in  a  long  breath  of  surprise  and 
delight. 

"  The  present  to  me  always  seems  ignoble  compared 
with  the  past,"  she  stammered  out. 

"  Ah,  but  isn't  that  only — only  the  glamour  of  time  ? 
After  all,  the  past  was  the  present  to  the  men  of  those 
days,  just  the  same  as  ours  is  to  us." 

"  Then  you  do  not  think  the  old  days  were  finer, 
more  romantic  than  our  times  ?  "  asked  Miriam.  It 
was  an  entirely  new  idea  to  her. 

The  young  man  smiled- — a  smile  that  lit  up  his  face 
7. 


THE     LADDER 

as  suddenly  as  if  a  lamp  had  been  lighted  behind  his 
eyes.  It  seemed  to  express  a  world  of  meaning,  that 
smile — pleasant,  pleasant  experiences  stored  in  his 
memory,  grand  views  of  a  brave  and  worthy  world. 

"  Not  a  bit  finer  or  more  romantic  than  the  present 
time ;  men  and  women  and  their  lives  are  what  make 
the  interest  of  the  world,  and  the  outward  conditions 
have  little  to  do  with  it." 

Miriam  gave  a  gasp  of  interest ;  but  at  this  moment 
Aunt  Pillar  broke  in  upon  the  conversation. 

"  Miriam,  will  you  fetch  two  candles  from  the  pan- 
try? "  she  said.  "  The  passage  is  dark,  and  Miss  Eve 
wishes  to  see  the  old  cistern." 

When  the  candles  had  been  fetched  and  lighted, 
Aunt  Pillar,  with  many  apologies  for  preceding  her 
visitors  down  the  passage,  advanced  in  the  direction 
of  the  cistern.  Miss  Joyce  followed  close  behind  the 
housekeeper,  holding  up  her  beautiful  frilled  skirts 
above  wonderful  shoes,  and  Miriam  followed  her,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Alan  Gore.  He  walked  with  his 
hand  thrust  deep  down  into  his  pocket — a  habit  he 
had — turning  when  he  spoke,  and  looking  down  at 
her  with  an  amused,  pleased  expression. 

Miriam  was  in  a  vast  state  of  excitement,  for  she 
had  grasped  the  fact  that  she  was  at  this  moment,  and 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  (and  probably  the  last), 
talking  to  one  of  those  distinguished  men  whose  names 
one  read  in  the  papers,  whose  speeches  were  quoted 
all  over  the  country ;  one  of  the  men  who  made  things 
happen  in  the  world.  And  instead  of  being  difficult  to 
speak  to,  this  man  seemed,  as  the  Bible  said,  to  under- 
stand her  thoughts  afar  off.  She  longed  to  grasp  such 

8 


TO     THE     STARS 

a  golden  opportunity,  and,  of  course,  failed  to  do  so, 
just  because  she  was  too  eager  about  it.  Probably 
never  again  in  life  would  she  be  able  to  exchange  a 
word  with  Mr.  Alan  Gore,  and  here  she  was,  walking 
beside  him,  tongue-tied  and  stupid  as  any  schoolgirl. 

Gore,  on  his  part,  was  wondering  what  sort  of  crea- 
ture this  niece  of  the  Joyces'  housekeeper  could  be. 
He  looked  down  at  her  strange,  large-featured,  immo- 
bile face  and  thought  he  read  something  unusual  there. 

"  What  books  do  you  read  ?  "  he  asked  suddenly, 
without  any  preamble,  taking  for  granted  that  she 
read. 

"  I  have  few  books,"  said  Miriam.  "  There  is  no 
good  library  at  Hindcup-in-the-Fields,  and  I  have  read 
all  the  books  I  can  borrow."  She  could  not  avoid  this 
sententiousness  which  overtakes  those  who  attempt  to 
reform  their  original  speech. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  lend  you  any,"  Gore  began. 
But  just  as  this  suggestion  had  fallen  from  his  lips, 
Aunt  Pillar  stood  still  beside  the  old  cistern  and  began 
to  explain  the  carvings  upon  it.  It  took  some  time 
for  the  visitors  to  examine  these,  and  then  Miss  Joyce 
suggested  that  they  had  seen  enough. 

"  It's  dark  and  drippy  down  in  these  cellar  places," 
she  said.  "  Come,  Mr.  Gore,  we  will  ascend  into  the 
upper  regions  again.  Good  afternoon,  Mrs.  Pillar, 
and  thank  you.  I'm  afraid  we  have  disturbed  the  quiet 
of  your  Sunday.  Good  afternoon,  Miriam."  And  she 
swept  away  down  the  passage  without  leaving  Gore 
time  for  another  word  with  Miriam. 

"  Here,  take  one  of  the  candles,  and  look  to  your 
gown;  they  do  drip  dreadful  in  this  draught;  better 

9 


THE     LADDER 

put  yours  out,  or  your  dress  will  be  all  a-spot  with 
grease,"  said  Aunt  Pillar.  She  gathered  up  her  skirts 
and  stepped  off  down  the  passage  toward  the  house- 
keeper's room,  puffing  from  her  exertions.  Miriam 
followed  slowly,  the  extinguished  candle  in  her  hand. 

"  I  feel  like  that,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  looked 
at  the  cold,  black  wick — "  a  flame  one  minute  and  then 
blown  out.  I  don't  suppose  he  will  remember  anything 
about  the  books.  Miss  Joyce  said,  '  Let  us  come  up 
into  the  upper  regions  ' ;  that  also  is  like  me.  I  remain 
down  below ;  happier  people  breathe  an  upper  air." 

Aunt  Pillar's  voice  broke  in  upon  her  melancholy 
thoughts : 

"  You'll  be  ready  for  your  tea  now,  Miriam ;  I  will 
be  having  mine  directly.  That  new  kitchen  maid  is 
worritting  the  life  out  of  me ;  never  a  meal  in  time. — 
It's  her  duty  to  set  them,  you  see. — I  think  the  stable 
boy's  courting  her,  she's  that  forgetful.  I  have  a 
business  keeping  them  all  at  their  work,  I  can  tell 
you ! " 

Miriam  followed  her  aunt  into  the  parlor  as  if  she 
walked  in  a  dream,  and  listened,  throughout  the  meal 
that  followed,  to  her  aunt's  comments  on  their  visitors. 

"  I  daresay  it  will  be  a  match  between  them,"  she 
said.  "  She  is  a  fine-looking  young  lady,  to  be  sure." 


10 


TQ     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    II 

THE  Sadlers  were  Wesleyans;  that  is  to  say,  Mrs. 
Sadler  was  one  heart  and  soul,  while  her  daughter 
was  one  in  name  only.  Twice  every  Sunday  they  went 
to  chapel,  and  every  Sunday  evening  Mr.  Hobbes,  the 
Wesleyan  minister,  and  his  wife  came  to  supper  with 
the  Sadlers,  "  for  it  saves  Mrs.  Hobbes  the  trouble 
of  cooking,"  as  Mrs.  Sadler  invariably  remarked,  as 
each  Sunday  came  round.  This  recurrence  of  tiny, 
scarcely  noticeable  incidents  often  becomes  very  irk- 
some to  young  creatures ;  Miriam  found  herself  wait- 
ing for  the  invariable  "  it  saves  Mrs.  Hobbes  "  to  come, 
and  it  always  came.  With  changeless  regularity,  too, 
the  Hobbeses  sat  down  to  the  cold  Sunday  supper, 
year  in  and  year  out ;  Mr.  Hobbes  said  the  same  long 
grace  before  meat  and  (so  it  seemed  to  Miriam)  they 
spoke  about  the  same  things  each  night.  Now  it  is  not 
of  the  nature  of  woman  to  be  an  Ishmael ;  she  likes 
to  conform  to  the  views  of  those  about  her;  it  does 
not  please  her  to  be  in  revolt  from  custom ;  but  deep 
down  in  this  young  woman's  heart  was  a  savage  feel- 
ing of  revolt  from  her  surroundings.  She  still  went 
unresistingly  to  chapel  with  her  mother,  still  listened 
without  dissent  to  all  that  Mr.  Hobbes  said;  but  she 
knew  it  was  not  going  to  be  for  long — a  time  must 
come  when  she  would  rebel. 

This  Sunday  evening  was,  of  course,  no  exception 
ii 


THE     LADDER 

to  the  general  rule.  Miriam  had  to  hurry  on  the  way 
home,  and  arrived  hot  and  tired,  just  in  time  to  go 
to  chapel  with  her  mother.  A  smell  of  new  varnish 
filled  the  building,  which  had  been  freshly  "  done  up  " 
by  the  local  house  painter.  The  walls  were  a  bright 
shade  of  flesh  pink,  "  picked  out "  at  their  junction 
with  the  boarding  by  a  floral  design  in  darker  red. 
The  congregation,  this  fine  evening,  was  small  and 
sleepy,  and  Mr.  Hobbes  tried  to  awaken  the  sleepers 
by  very  energetic  methods ;  his  over-emphasis  offended 
every  sensibility  of  Miriam's  nature;  but  she  was  a 
girl  of  extremely  impartial  judgment,  and  as  she  lis- 
tened to  the  preacher  she  kept  saying  to  herself,  "  Even 
though  I  dislike  his  style  of  preaching,  I  should  respect 
his  beliefs  because  they  are  genuine ;  he  is  a  good  man 
in  his  own  way,  though  it  is  such  an  objectionable 
way !  "  And  then,  having  tried  to  be  impartial,  she 
would  confess  her  own  entire  separation  of  heart  from 
all  Mr.  Hobbes's  creeds  and  methods  of  promulgating 
them.  As  he  waxed  more  and  more  urgent  in  appeal, 
she  felt  colder  and  colder.  "  This  is  not  God's  way, 
this  is  man's  way,"  she  said  to  herself.  The  hymns, 
too,  provoked  her  by  their  stridency,  their  urgency, 
their  familiarity.  Only  now  and  again  some  of  the 
more  old-fashioned  verses  made  a  true  appeal  to  her 
heart ;  then  she  thought :  "  I  might  find  God  if  I  were 
left  alone  to  find  Him,  with  fine,  dignified,  worthy 
words  like  these  to  help  me,  and  without  being  irri- 
tated and  disgusted  by  other  people." 

One  such  hymn  was  sung  this  evening.  Miriam 
loved  the  undecorated  short  meter  of  the  verse,  and 
the  simple  metaphor: 

12 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  decked  in  living  green." 

How  beautiful  it  was !  Long  ago,  when  she  was  a 
little  child,  she  had  cried  aloud  in  chapel  during  the 
singing  of  this  hymn,  because  she  thought  it  meant 
that  some  awful  day,  all  alone,  with  no  grown  person 
near  to  help  her,  she  must  wade  through  the  Hindcup 
river,  which  was  so  terribly  black  and  deep,  or  else 
be  forever  shut  out  of  heaven.  But  time  had  softened 
this  terrible  impression,  and  she  now  felt  only  pleasure 
in  the  beauty  of  the  words,  the  truth  of  the  imagery. 
When  this  hymn  had  been  sung,  the  benediction  was 
pronounced,  and  the  heated  congregation  streamed 
out  into  the  cool  evening  air.  Miriam  and  her  mother 
always  hurried  home  at  a  great  pace,  so  as  to  be  ready 
to  receive  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobbes.  Supper,  as  I  have 
said,  was  cold,  but  a  cup  of  Symington's  Essence  of 
Coffee  (a  thick  brown  liquid,  a  teaspoonful  of  which 
was  poured  from  a  bottle  into  each  cup  and  filled  up 
with  boiling  water)  cheered  the  coldly  furnished  feast 
toward  its  close. 

Conversation  during  this  meal  always  followed  the 
same  lines — the  number  of  persons  at  chapel ;  who  had 
seemed  attentive;  who  inattentive;  whether  such  or 
such  a  preacher  was  expected  shortly  in  Hindcup — 
these  were  the  usual  topics.  But  this  evening  a  remark 
from  Mrs.  Sadler  that  Miriam  had  been  at  the  Manor 
to  see  her  aunt,  provided  fresh  subject  for  discussion. 

Mr.  Hobbes  had  drawn  his  chair  nearer  to  the  open 

window  and  was  enjoying  his  essence  of  coffee  when 

Mrs.  Sadler  imparted  this  bit  of  news  to  him.     He 

turned  at  once  to  Miriam  and  asked  her  with  a  would- 

2  13 


THE     LADDER 

be  sarcastic  emphasis  whether  she  had  seen  anything 
of  the  "big  people"  at  the  Manor,  adding:  "I  hear 
Mr.  Alan  Gore  arrived  there  last  night ;  I  should  like 
to  see  him ;  I  am  afraid  that  he  holds  dangerous  views." 

"  He'll  be  one  of  those  dreadful  freethinkers,"  said 
Mrs.  Sadler,  shaking  her  head. 

"  I  doubt  it  is  so ;  I  doubt  it  is  so ;  a  speech  of  his 
which  I  saw  reported  not  long  ago  was  strongly  fla- 
vored with  doubt  and  unbelief." 

"  Dear,  dear ! "  sighed  Mrs.  Sadler,  and  the  sigh 
over  Gore's  defections  was  echoed  by  both  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Hobbes.  Miriam  kept  her  own  counsel ;  worlds 
would  not  have  made  her  reveal  that  she  had  that  af- 
ternoon spoken  with  the  subject  of  their  animadver- 
sions. 

"  I  feel  like  a  dog  with  a  bone  whenever  I  have 
anything  that  I  like  to  think  about,"  she  thought.  "  I 
go  away  and  hide  it,  and  only  dig  it  up  again  when  I 
am  quite  alone."  She  smiled  to  herself  then,  and  sat 
silent.  But  not  for  long  was  she  to  be  let  alone. 
Mr.  Hobbes  belonged  to  what  he  would  himself  have 
called  the  aggressive  school  of  Christian  workers ;  his 
motto  was  "  Instant  in  season  and  out  of  season  " ;  so, 
inspired  by  the  last  mouthfuls  of  coffee  essence,  he 
turned  to  her  and  began : 

"  And  now,  Miriam,  what  are  you  going  to  do  to 
hasten  the  coming  of  the  Kingdom  ?  I  think  it  is  time 
that  you  took  a  more  decided  stand,  and  began  some 
definite  Christian  work.  What  do  you  say  to  a  Bible 
class?  We  are  in  want  of  a  teacher." 

"  A  Bible  class !  "  the  girl  exclaimed ;  "  what  would 
I  teach  ? " 

14 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Just  the  simple  Gospel  story ;  no  wisdom  is  re- 
quired for  that,"  said  Mr.  Hobbes,  and  really  believed 
what  he  said. 

"  Wisdom  is  more  required  in  the  teaching  of  reli- 
gion than  in  anything  else  in  the  world,"  said  Miriam, 
with  an  energy  and  conviction  that  struck  her  listeners 
dumb.  There  was  silence  for  quite  a  minute,  till  Mrs. 
Sadler  exclaimed : 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  how  dare  you  speak  up  to  Mr. 
Hobbes  in  that  way !  " 

"  Because  I  mean  it,  and  believe  it,  mother,  and  I 
do  not  see  why  one  should  not  say  what  one  thinks," 
her  daughter  answered.  She  had  risen  from  her  chair, 
flushed  and  trembling,  ready  to  fight  for  liberty  of 
speech.  In  an  evil  hour  Mr.  Hobbes  began  to  argue 
with  this  strayed  sheep  of  his  fold. 

"  Oh,  that  just  depends  on  whether  one's  opinions 
are  right  and  wise  and  good  opinions,"  he  began.  But 
Miriam  would  have  none  of  his  arguments. 

"  Not  in  the  least,"  she  said ;  "  it  just  depends  on 
whether  the  opinions  are  mine — my  own.  If  they  are, 
then  they  are  right  for  me,  whatever  all  the  world 
may  think  or  believe." 

"Oh,  dear!  oh,  dear!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Sadler. 
What  serpent  was  this  that  she  had  been  warming  in 
her  bosom  all  these  years  ?  Of  late  she  had  been  a  lit- 
tle unhappy  about  Miriam  somehow,  but  never,  never 
had  she  feared  that  things  were  as  bad  as  this — that 
daughter  of  hers  should  assert  her  claim  to  freedom  of 
thought  and  speech  as  opposed  not  only  to  Mr.  Hobbes 
but  to  all  the  thinking,  believing  world ! 

"  She  takes  after  her  poor  father,  Mr.  Hobbes,"  she 
15 


THE     LADDER 

said,  with  a  dismally  prophetic  shake  of  her  head.  It 
was  generally  known  in  Hindcup  that  the  late  Mr. 
Sadler  had  been  something  of  a  trial  to  his  wife.  He 
was  not  a  native  of  the  little  town,  and  that  fact  alone 
was  an  offense  to  the  townspeople ;  then  he  had  never 
consorted  much  with  anyone  there,  and  had  been 
known  to  have  a  dangerous  love  of  books.  These  were 
all  suspicious  facts.  He  had  a  nasty,  sarcastic  tongue, 
and  used  it  freely  against  those  of  his  neighbors  who 
offended  him,  and  alas,  very  frequently  against  his 
wife.  It  was  not  Mrs.  Sadler's  fault  that  she  was  stu- 
pid ;  and  it  was  certainly  his  fault  that  he  had  married 
her;  but  these  were  facts  that  Joseph  Sadler  had  al- 
ways ignored  in  his  contemptuous  references  to  the 
wife  of  his  bosom.  Such  a  husband  had  been  no  great 
loss;  and  the  widow  may  perhaps  be  excused  for  ex- 
claiming so  sadly  that  her  child  "  took  after  him." 

There  was  another  ominous  silence ;  then  Miriam 
got  up  and  left  the  room.  When  she  was  gone,  her 
elders  drew  nearer  to  one  another  and  discussed  this 
new  position  that  she  had  taken  up. 

Their  conclusions,  when  arrived  at,  were  distress- 
ingly mistaken.  Miriam  was  to  be  "  lovingly  "  and 
unwearyingly  "  dealt  with  "  by  one  member  or  another 
of  their  community.  Mr.  Hobbes  himself  would  "  take 
an  early  opportunity "  of  speaking  to  her,  and  he 
would  mention  her  case  to  another  church  member 
who  had  great  powers  of  winning  young  souls. 

Finally,  in  deep  distress,  Mrs.  Sadler  asked  Mr. 
Hobbes  to  pray  with  her  for  her  erring  child.  The 
prayer  was  offered  up ;  but  prayers  are  not  always  an- 
swered exactly  as  we  wish  them  to  be. 

16 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    III 

HiNDCUP-iN-THE-FiELDS,  as  you  would  judge  from 
its  name,  lies  among  meadows  wide  and  marshy. 
It  is  scarcely  possible  to  walk  across  them  without 
getting  your  feet  wet;  but  this  moist  soil  induces  a 
lush  growth  of  delightful  flowers  and  grasses — but- 
tercups, cuckoo-pints,  and  buck-beans.  Here  Miriam 
loved  to  walk  conferring  with  her  own  heart,  and 
gloating  with  an  extraordinary  rapture  upon  the  beau- 
tiful world.  It  was  not  always  easy  for  her  to  get  out, 
for  girls  of  her  class  are  not  brought  up  to  an  out- 
of-door  life,  and  Mrs.  Sadler  preferred  to  see  her 
daughter  sewing  in  the  afternoons.  But  more  and 
more  of  late  the  girl  disregarded  her  mother's  hints, 
and  went  off  to  the  meadows  for  hours  at  a  time. 

A  meandering  path,  which  twisted  so  as  to  avoid 
the  marshiest  bits  of  the  fields,  wound  along  in  the 
direction  of  the  Manor.  It  was  little  frequented,  and 
at  the  crossing  of  two  fences  there  was  a  low  stile  with 
two  steps.  Here  Miriam  used  to  sit,  watching  until 
the  sun  had  gone  down,  a  red  ball  behind  the  church 
spires  and  house  roofs  of  Hindcup.  Then,  when  the 
dusk  began  to  fall,  and  the  quiet  of  evening  stole  over 
the  land,  she  reluctantly  turned  her  steps  homeward. 

A  few  days  after  the  Sunday  evening  of  her  revolt, 
Miriam  came  slowly  along  this  favorite  path  toward 
the  stile.  Rather  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  that  some 

17 


THE     LADDER 

one  was  there  before  her,  and  the  next  moment  she 
recognized  Mr.  Alan  Gore.  She  hesitated,  stood  still 
for  a  moment,  and  then  came  on.  Gore  rose  from  the 
stile  to  let  her  pass,  and  then,  seeing  who  it  was,  turned 
to  speak  to  her. 

"  I  am  blocking  up  the  stile,"  he  said,  as  he  moved 
aside. 

Miriam  could  not  reply — her  thoughts  were  in  a 
wild  confusion.  Would  she  dare  ? — She  must ;  it  was 
life  itself  at  stake!  She  turned  her  strange  face  to 
him,  unsmiling,  troubled. 

"  Sir,"  she  cried,  "  will  you  lend  me  some  books  ? 
You  said — you —  Her  words  trailed  off  into  silence. 
Would  he  be  angry  ? 

"  Books  ?  Why,  yes ;  I  am  honored  to  lend  you  any- 
thing in  my  power,"  said  Gore,  with  a  gravity  and 
kindness  that  set  all  her  fears  at  rest.  He  motioned 
to  the  stile.  "  Won't  you  sit  down  and  tell  me  about 
yourself  ?  "  he  said.  "  Then  I  shall  know  better  what 
to  send  you." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  tell  you.  I  do  not  know 
where  to  begin !  "  Miriam  exclaimed.  She  sat  down 
on  the  step  of  the  stile,  and  Gore  leaned  against  the 
fence,  waiting  for  her  to  begin  her  story. 

"Well?"  he  asked. 

"  I  want  knowledge,  and  I  cannot  get  it.  I  want  to 
find  a  faith  that  satisfies  me — or  even  an  unbelief 
that  is  certain — I  want  a  life — "  She  hesitated,  and 
stopped  again. 

"Have  you  ever  seen  any  of  Blake's  pictures?" 
Gore  asked  suddenly.  "  No  ?  Well,  there's  one  ab- 
surd little  thumb-nail  sketch  of  two  little  manikins 

18 


TO     THE     STARS 

putting  up  a  ladder  to  try  to  reach  the  stars,  and  under 
it  is  written,  '  /  want!  I  want! '  That's  about  your — 
all  our — position,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  That's  it,  that's  it !  "  cried  Miriam,  clasping  her 
hands  together  in  an  ecstasy — the  ecstasy  of  finding 
herself  understood  at  last.  "  '  /  want,  I  want ' ;  and 
I  know  of  no  ladder  to  reach  the  stars." 

"  There  is  none,"  said  Gore  gravely. 

"  Oh,  sir,  don't  say  that !  some  people  reach  them ; 
surely  you  have  reached  them  yourself !  " 

"  I  ?  "  he  said,  in  unaffected  surprise.  "  No,  no ; 
'I  want,  I  want/  too,  and  ever  shall,  till  this  race  is 
run." 

"  Ah,  but  then  you  are  running  the  race,"  said 
Miriam  bitterly. 

"  And  can  you  not  run  yours  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  If  I  had  one,  perhaps — oh,  I  do  not  know  where 
to  turn,"  she  cried. 

"  May  I  give  you  some  advice  ?  Do  not  be  in  too 
great  a  hurry  to  choose  your  road,"  said  Gore.  "  You 
are  young,  and  so  must  probably  wander  about  on 
a  good  many  wrong  paths  before  you  find  the  right 
one.  You  must  have  patience  with  yourself." 

Miriam  considered  this  bit  of  advice  in  silence. 
Youth  is  proverbially  impatient,  so  this  was  not  very 
palatable  counsel.  Gore  went  on  after  a  minute : 

"  What  books  do  you  wish  to  have  ?  What  have 
you  already  read  ?  " 

"  I  wish  to  read  all  the  poets,  all  the  historians,  all 
the  novelists,"  she  began,  and  then  laughed  at  her 
own  absurdity;  and  Gore  laughed  with  her. 

"  There's  a  life-work  for  you !  "  he  said.    "  But  why 

19 


THE     LADDER 

do  you  wish  to  do  all  this  reading  ?  What  is  to  be  the 
end  of  it  all  ?  Have  you  any  aim  before  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  must  get  away  from  the  world  I  live  in 
now,  and  I  am  not  fit  for  any  other  yet.  I  wish  to  be 
able  to  live  among  people  who  care  for  the  same  things 
that  I  care  for." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  leave  your  own  world  ?  " 
Gore  asked  kindly. 

"  Because  every  week  I  seem  to  grow  farther  away 
from  everyone  in  it;  they  do  not  like  me;  even  my 
own  mother  would  like  me  to  be  different  from  what 
I  am." 

Gore  looked  upon  the  ground  and  meditated.  This 
was  a  very  curious  young  woman.  He  felt  sorry  for 
her,  but  was  it  wise  to  help  her  to  widen  the  gulf 
which  seemed  already  to  lie  between  her  and  her 
people  ? 

"Well,"  he  said  at  length,  "you  shall  have  the 
books.  I'll  send  you  any  number  on  one  condition — 
that  you  work  at  them,  not  reading  only,  but  reread 
them  to  find  out  all  they  have  to  teach  you.  That 
never  hurt  anyone  yet.  Perhaps  they  will  help  you ; 
that  will  largely  depend  upon  yourself.  I'll  send  them 
next  week.  When  you  are  quite  done  with  them,  will 
you  send  them  back  to  me,  and  write  to  me,  telling  me 
what  you  have  gained  from  them — if  anything  ?  Then 
I'll  send  you  some  more,  if  you  wish  for  them.  Does 
this  arrangement  suit  you  ?  " 

Miriam  sat  quite  silent  for  a  minute.  Large  tears 
welled  up  in  her  eyes,  and  fell  down  on  the  blue  cot- 
ton gown  she  wore.  Then  she  said :  "  I  think  there 
.must  be  a  God." 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Why  ?  "  Gore  asked,  curious  to  have  her  answer. 
But  she  only  shook  her  head ;  she  either  could  not  or 
would  not  reply;  he  did  not  press  the  question,  but 
took  out  a  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  an  envelope. 

"  Where  shall  I  send  the  books  to  ?  Will  you  give 
me  your  full  name  and  address  ?  "  he  said.  A  world 
of  difficulties  flashed  before  Miriam  at  this  question. 
What  would  her  mother  say?  Only  a  few  days  ago 
she  had  heard  Mr.  Alan  Gore  denounced  as  a  "  free- 
thinker "  by  Mr.  Hobbes ;  how  would  she  permit  books 
of  his  choosing  to  enter  her  house  ?  But  for  this  diffi- 
culty Miriam  quickly  invented  a  remedy.  She  had 
but  one  friend  in  Hindcup — to  this  friend's  house  the 
books  must  be  sent. 

"  Will  you  please  address  the  books  to  Miriam 
Sadler,  The  Old  House,  Hindcup?"  she  said ;  and  Gore 
wrote  down  the  address  unsuspiciously.  How  could 
he  guess  that  "  The  Old  House  "  was  not  her  home? 

"  Very  well,  then,"  he  said,  shutting  up  his  pencil. 
"  You  shall  have  the  books ;  take  as  much  time  as  you 
please  with  them,  and  get  all  the  help  you  can  out  of 
them,  and  don't  be  discouraged."  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  her,  smiling  his  kind,  interesting  smile,  and 
turned  away. 

Miriam  watchecl  till  a  bend  of  the  path  hid  him  from 
sight;  then  she  rose  from  the  stile  and  walked  slowly 
off  toward  Hindcup.    The  refrain  of  one  of  the  chapel 
hymns  haunted  her  memory,  with  its  lilting  old  tune: 
"  There  is  a  better  world  they  say, 
Oh,  so  bright!     Oh,  so  bright! " 

"  There  is,  indeed,  with  men  like  that  in  it,"  she  said 
to  herself  bitterly. 

21 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER    IV 

You  must  now  learn  something  about  Miriam's 
only  friend  in  Hindcup.  Some  ten  years  before  this 
story  begins,  an  elderly  woman,  Miss  Geraldine  Foxe, 
inherited  considerable  house  property  in  Hindcup. 
She  came,  in  consequence,  to  live  there ;  but  from  her 
first  settlement  in  the  town,  showed  no  inclination  to 
be  friendly  with  her  neighbors.  Their  visits  were  not 
returned,  and  after  a  time  the  kindly  ladies  of  Hind- 
cup  ceased  ringing  at  Miss  Foxe's  door  bell.  She 
lived  in  a  very  old  house — known  for  that  reason  as 
"  The  Old  House  " — which  stood  a  little  way  out  from 
the  town  on  the  Goodhampton  Road.  Its  roof  was 
covered  with  the  moss  of  centuries,  its  garden  was 
only  a  wilderness  of  tangled  bushes,  where  with  diffi- 
culty one  could  trace  the  hedges  that  had  once  been 
trim  and  clipped.  Antiquarians  who  visited  Hindcup 
often  tried  to  gain  access  to  the  old  house,  but  Miss 
Foxe  would  not  allow  it.  She  would  not  be  disturbed 
by  anyone.  This  mysterious-looking  house  had  always 
had  a  curious  attraction  for  Miriam.  She  used  to  go 
and  gaze  through  the  big,  old,  wrought-iron  gate 
which  was  so  seldom  opened  that  its  hinges  were  all 
rusted  over,  wondering  what  histories  had  gone  on 
behind  it.  As  children  do,  she  exaggerated  the  glories 
of  the  old  place,  and  in  fancy  saw  kings  and  prin- 
cesses wandering  down  the  grass-grown  paths  under 
22 


TO     THE     STARS 

the  yew  hedges.  Then  as  she  grew  older,  Miriam  rec- 
ognized that  this  was  unlikely,  and  that  even  in  its 
halcyon  days  The  Old  House  could  never  have  been 
magnificent;  but  she  kept  her  love  for  it.  She  never 
passed  the  gate  without  pausing  to  look  through  it, 
and  her  childish  wish  to  see  the  inside  of  the  house 
was  strong  as  ever.  One  evening,  when  Miriam  was 
standing  thus  at  the  gate,  Miss  Foxe  came  toward  it ; 
the  girl  turned  politely  away  but  Miss  Foxe  called 
after  her. 

"  Stop !  "  she  said.  "  Tell  me  why  you  are  looking 
in ;  I  have  seen  you  do  it  before  though  you  have  not 
seen  me." 

Miriam  was  rather  annoyed,  and  a  little  alarmed. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  she  said ;  "  but  ever 
since  I  was  a  child  I  have  thought  The  Old  House  so 
beautiful  and  interesting,  and  liked  to  look  at  it." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  interesting?"  Miss  Foxe 
demanded.  She  had  come  close  up  to  the  gate,  and 
spoke  through  the  bars. 

"  I  mean  as  if  interesting,  wonderful  things  had 
happened  in  it,"  Miriam  said  hesitatingly. 

"What  sort  of  things?" 

"  I  am  not  sure,  ma'am ;  but  I  think  I  could 
imagine." 

Miss  Foxe  fitted  the  key  into  the  gate  and  it  creaked 
open. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said ;  "  and  call  me  '  Miss  Foxe,'  not 
'  ma'am,'  for  I  see  you  are  a  girl  of  education.  I  want 
none  of  your  '  ma'ams ' ;  tell  me  your  name  and  come 
in  and  see  the  house  for  yourself." 

This  had  been  the  beginning  of  a  friendship  with 
23 


THE     LADDER 

Miss  Foxe — a  friendship  which  Mrs.  Sadler  was  not 
quite  '  sure  about/  as  she  would  have  said  herself, 
but  which  she  permitted,  because  she  was  rather  flat- 
tered that  '  a  real  lady,'  who  had  persistently  refused 
the  acquaintance  of  everyone  in  Hindcup  should  elect 
to  make  friends  with  her  daughter. 

Miss  Foxe  was  a  very  eccentric  woman,  and  if  Mrs. 
Sadler  had  heard  many  of  the  things  she  said  to 
Miriam  there  would  have  been  a  speedy  end  of  the 
friendship.  But  the  girl  knew  too  well  to  mention 
any  of  these  sayings  before  her  mother.  Miss  Foxe 
was  always  urging  the  girl  to  emancipate  herself  in 
one  direction  or  another ;  to  leave  home ;  to  stop  going 
to  chapel ;  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  her  cousins,  if 
they  were  tiresome — counsels  which  Miriam  had  never 
acted  upon,  but  which  sunk  into  her  mind  none  the  less. 

Miss  Foxe  was  particularly  vigorous  in  her  denun- 
ciations of  Miriam's  cousins: 

"  From  your  accounts  of  them,  they  seem  to  be  quite 
impossible  people ;  the  sooner  you  break  off  from  them 
the  better.  This  tyranny  of  blood  which  exists  in 
England  is  intolerable.  Why  should  one  consort  with 
fools  because  they  happen  to  have  had  the  same  grand- 
father as  one's  self?  I  do  not  see  it." 

Miriam  had  certainly  been  blessed  with  a  goodly 
array  of  cousins.  The  Pillars  seemed  to  populate  half 
Hindcup;  ramifications  of  the  connection  stretched 
everywhere.  They  were  a  strong,  self-assertive,  suc- 
cessful race.  The  men  made  their  way  in  the  world, 
got  good  situations,  and  earned  money;  the  women 
were  handsome  and  married  well.  It  was  traditional 
with  them  to  do  this ;  and  if,  as  was  sometimes  neces- 

24 


TO     THE     STARS 

sarily  the  case,  one  of  them  happened  to  make  a  less 
successful  matrimonial  venture  than  her  cousins,  it  was 
also  traditional  with  the  family  to  deny  the  unsuccess 
so  strongly  that  the  outside  world  in  time  came  to  take 
the  match  at  their  valuation.  "  It  would  never  do," 
as  they  said,  "  to  do  anything  else  " ;  they  liked  that 
it  should  be  acknowledged  on  all  sides  that  "  the  Pil- 
lars married  well." 

It  would  be  weariness  itself  to  enumerate  all  Mir- 
iam's cousins ;  but  the  more  important  members  of 
the  connection  bulked  so  largely  in  her  life  that  you 
must  know  who  and  what  they  were. 

Timothy  Pillar,  the  eldest  unmarried  male  cousin, 
was  quite  a  feature  of  Hindcup  society.  He  was  a 
stout,  high-colored  young  man,  a  "  traveler  "  for  table 
glass,  and  getting  on  well  in  his  calling.  He  and 
Miriam  were  always  at  war — not  openly,  but  perhaps 
all  the  more  savagely  for  that  very  reason.  She  could 
not  abide  the  horrid  jokes  on  matrimony  that  he  fired 
off  at  her  whenever  they  met.  Poor  Timothy  only 
meant  to  be  pleasant  and  amusing ;  but  Miriam  did  not 
see  his  jokes  in  this  light.  She  did  not  get  on  very 
much  better  with  his  sister  Maggie,  the  eldest  married 
Pillar.  Maggie  was  a  buxom  young  woman,  who  had 
done  her  duty  early  in  life  by  marrying  the  most  ris- 
ing lawyer  in  Hindcup.  That  was  some  ten  years  ago, 
and  she  had  now  a  comfortable  establishment,  and 
a  numerous  and  healthy  progeny.  She  saw  nothing 
beyond  her  house,  her  husband,  and  her  children — 
nor  ever  would. 

The  second  sister,  Matilda,  had  not  married  quite 
so  well — her  husband  was  only  a  bank  clerk;  but  the 

25 


THE     LADDER 

other  members  of  the  family  had  bolstered  up  his  po- 
sition to  the  outside  world  till  James  Marsden  ap- 
peared more  in  the  light  of  a  bank  director  than  any- 
thing else. 

Two  sisters  still  remained  in  the  parental  nest — 
Grace,  who  was  undeniably  getting  elderly,  and  yet 
whom  no  one  seemed  to  wish  to  marry,  and  Emmie, 
the  youngest  of  the  sisters,  a  pretty,  fresh-complex- 
ioned  girl,  who  spent  her  life  in  trimming  hats  for  her- 
self, and  giggling  over  what  she  called  her  "  ad- 
mirers." Hindcup  had  not  yet  given  up  hope  of  seeing 
Grace  Pillar  led  to  the  altar,  and  as  tales  of  Emmie's 
conquests  formed  the  major  part  of  her  married  sis- 
ters' conversation,  the  townspeople  only  waited  to  see 
what  her  choice  would  be. 

Miriam,  on  her  return  from  Miss  Cumper's  School 
at  Goodhampton,  had  naturally  been  expected  to  see 
a  great  deal  of  her  cousins.  But  before  very  long  her 
object  in  life  was  to  see  as  little  of  them  as  possible. 
She  did  not  care  to  hear  about  Emmie's  love  affairs, 
she  did  not  mind  whether  Grace  married  or  did  not 
marry,  she  took  no  interest  in  Maggie  Broadman's 
house,  husband,  or  children,  and  cared  less  than  noth- 
ing whether  James  Marsden  got  a  raise  of  salary,  and 
enabled  Matilda  to  keep  a  second  servant.  This  was 
all,  no  doubt,  very  unamiable  in  Miriam ;  but  thus  she 
was  made.  The  Pillars,  in  their  turn,  held  her  in  the 
utmost  contempt ;  she  had  no  love  affairs,  "  nor  was 
like  to  have,"  as  they  said,  and  she  was  always  saying 
queer  things  they  did  not  understand.  Because  she 
was  one  of  their  family,  however,  the  married  Pillars 
(for  a  Pillar  always  seemed  to  remain  a  Pillar,  some- 

26 


TO     THE     STARS 

how)  asked  her  to  their  houses;  but  it  was  only  on 
sufferance,  and  they  had  little  to  say  to  her  when  she 
came.  So  relations  were  somewhat  strained  all  round, 
and  Maggie  Broadman  would  say  in  a  pitying  way : 

"  If  only  some  man  would  take  a  fancy  to  Miriam 
and  marry  her,  I'm  sure  it  would  be  a  good  thing; 
but  there,  it's  not  likely,  I'm  afraid;  not  that  I  would 
say  so  out  of  the  family,  it  might  be  bad  for  Emmie 
and  Grace.  Nothing  spoils  a  girl's  chances  like  being 
thought  to  belong  to  a  family  that  don't  marry  easily." 

So,  with  a  family  loyalty  that  was  positively  noble, 
Mrs.  Broadman  would  describe  Miriam's  unmarried 
state  in  far  other  terms  to  the  outside  world. 

"  You  see,  she  is  very  particular,"  she  would  say, 
laughing,  and  shaking  her  head. 


27 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   V 

THE  well-married  young  Pillars  confessed  to  each 
other  (but  never,  never  to  outsiders)  that  their  Aunt 
Pillar's  position  as  housekeeper  at  Hindcup  Manor 
was  a  trial  to  them.  It  was  impossible  to  ignore  the 
fact  that  powerful  as  her  sway  was  at  the  Manor,  she 
herself  was  a  servant,  albeit  an  upper  one.  By  a  sort 
of  tacit  consent,  they  never  invited  Aunt  Pillar  to 
their  houses  when  they  had  company ;  but  sometimes 
they  allowed  themselves  an  afternoon  of  fearful  joy. 
One  of  the  sisters  would  invite  Aunt  Pillar  to  her 
house  on  a  day  when  no  one  else  was  likely  to  be  there, 
and  then  (the  other  sisters  assembling  by  prearrange- 
ment),  in  the  seclusion  of  their  dining  room,  they  gos- 
siped freely  with  her  over  the  great  people  at  the 
Manor — their  doings,  their  visitors,  their  dresses. 

With  her  nieces  Aunt  Pillar  had  positively  no  re- 
serves; she  would  descend  to  the  most  petty  detail 
imaginable — which  of  the  ladies  wore  false  hair; 
whether  this  one  disposed  of  her  old  dresses,  or  gave 
them  to  her  maid ;  whether  that  one  gave  out  as  many 
garments  to  be  washed  as  another.  All  was  grist  to 
the  mill  of  gossip;  and  sitting  round  the  little  dining 
table,  elbows  on  board,  the  young  women  feasted  on 
the  scraps  of  information  as  eagerly  as  hounds  on 
meat. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  after  Miriam's  meeting 
28 


TO     THE     STARS 

with  Alan  Gore  in  the  fields,  Mrs.  Marsden  (nee  Ma- 
tilda Pillar)  had  resolved  upon  one  of  these  family 
gatherings. 

Matilda  had  not  quite  such  genteel  visitors  as  her 
sister  Maggie  Broadman,  so  it  was  generally  consid- 
ered safer  for  her  to  be  the  hostess  on  these  occa- 
sions when  Aunt  Pillar  came  to  tea.  Matilda  (like  all 
her  sisters)  was  an  excellent  housekeeper,  and  the 
little  party  expected  a  delicious  meal. 

Aunt  Pillar  came  in  much  heated  from  her  walk  up 
the  street. 

"  Though  I  drove  to  the  station  in  one  of  the  car- 
riages, my  dears,  and  only  walked  up  here,"  she  ex- 
plained. She  untied  her  bonnet  strings  at  once,  on 
sitting  down,  and  removed  her  black  silk  mantle, 
which  Matilda  took  from  her  and  carefully  laid  across 
the  back  of  a  chair. 

"  It's  very  kind  of  you  to  have  made  the  exertion 
of  coming  over  here  in  this  heat,"  said  Maggie  Broad- 
man, supplying  her  aunt  with  a  footstool. 

"  Well,  this  is  a  very  busy  time  at  the  Manor,  of 
course,  I  won't  deny;  what  with  visitors  coming  and 
visitors  going  every  hour  of  the  day.  But  to  be  frank 
with  you,  my  dears,  I've  something  to  tell  you  all," 
said  Aunt  Pillar.  She  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
wiped  her  face  all  over,  and  seemed  refreshed  by  the 
process.  The  four  sisters  drew  nearer;  Matilda  only, 
in  her  capacity  of  hostess,  suggested  that  this  interest- 
ing bit  of  news  should  be  delayed  till  they  had  had  tea. 
"  It  was  just  coming,"  she  said. 

Aunt  Pillar  knew  too  well  what  a  good  cup  of  tea 
was,  to  suggest  that  it  should  be  delayed. 
3  29 


THE     LADDER 

"  You're  right,  Mattie,"  she  said.  "  Tea  is  never 
the  better  for  being  overdrawn.  Let  us  have  it  now. 
I'm  in  need  of  it ;  really,  with  the  indoor  life  I  lead,  the 
least  exertion  out  of  doors  throws  me  into  such  a  per- 
spiration." She  had  recourse  again  to  her  musk- 
scented  handkerchief.  Matilda  hastened  the  tea,  and 
after  a  good  deal  of  quiet  fussing  they  all  got  seated 
round  the  table  and  were  supplied  with  brimming, 
steaming  cups  of  tea. 

Aunt  Pillar  took  a  taste  of  hers  in  a  spoon. 

"  We  couldn't  do  better  than  this  at  the  Manor, 
Mattie,"  she  said ;  "  but  I  think  I  gave  you  the  address 
of  our  tea  merchant — he's  very  reliable." 

"  Yes,  aunt ;  I  always  get  five  pounds  of  the  black 
and  one  of  Pekoe,"  Matilda  began ;  but  the  other  sisters 
broke  in  upon  the  housewifely  talk,  demanding  to  hear 
what  the  news  might  be. 

"  Well,"  Aunt  Pillar  began,  looking  all  round  the 
table  to  collect  her  audience,  and  have  them  well  in 
hand  before  she  got  into  her  story — "  well,  it's  Miriam 
Sadler  again;  I  don't  know  what  that  girl's  going  to 
turn  into  at  all." 

There  was  a  shout  all  round  the  table  of,  "  She's 
going  to  be  married !  She's  engaged !  " 

But  Aunt  Pillar  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  indeed ;  Miriam  is  little  likely  to  do  anything 
so  sensible ;  but  I  must  begin  as  far  back  as  Sunday 
last.  You'll  remember  it  was  a  very  hot  day  for  the 
time  of  year.  I  had  had  a  very  busy  morning  see- 
ing about  the  cold  luncheon  they  had  upstairs  (I'll 
tell  you  all  about  it  afterwards,  Mattie — two  entrees  in 
aspic,  and  the  lobster  went  high  at  the  last  minute,  and 

30 


TO     THE     STARS 

cook  nearly  in  a  fit  with  the  heat,  couldn't  get  her  as- 
pics to  set)  ;  well,  after  all  was  over  "  (it  is  noticeable 
that  Aunt  Pillar  always  mentioned  a  meal  in  the  same 
terms  that  other  people  employ  for  a  more  solemn 
event) — "when  all  was  over,  I  was  that  exhausted  I 
just  sat  down  in  my  parlor  and  dropped  over  to  sleep. 
I  can't  have  been  dozing  for  more  than  half  an  hour, 
when  who  should  walk  in  but  Miriam,  blowzed  with 
heat,  poor  girl,  and  looking  very  strange  and  excited. 
I  was  going  to  ask  her  for  her  mother  and  the  rest  of 
you,  but  she  scarcely  answered  and  just  blurted  out : 

1 '  I've  come  to  ask  you  to  help  me,  aunt ' ;  and 
really  I  was  quite  overset  by  her  look  as  she  said  it." 

The  sisters  almost  stopped  eating  in  their  excite- 
ment, but  urged  Aunt  Pillar  to  go  on. 

"  I  asked  her  what  about  ?  and  she  said  '  Knowledge, 
learning,  aunt ;  I  want  more  education.'  Did  you  ever 
hear  anything  like  it  ?  " 

"  After  two  years  with  Miss  Cumper !  "  said  Maggie. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  what  more  would  anyone  want  ? 
Well,  I  just  said,  '  No,  Miriam,  you've  had  more  than 
enough  to  ruin  you.'  And  I'm  sure  I  spoke  the  truth. 
She  gave  me  such  a  look  as  you  never  saw ;  and,  as  I 
sit  here,  she  cried  out :  '  Aunt,  it's  life  and  hope  I  ask 
of  you ! '  Well,  my  dears,  my  own  thought  was  she 
had  had  a  touch  of  the  sun,  coming  over  the  meadows 
in  the  heat,  and  I  was  alarmed  at  the  thought.  But 
as  I  was  trying  to  collect  myself,  who  should  come  in 
but  Miss  Eve  Joyce  and  Mr.  Alan  Gore." 

She  paused  to  let  this  startling  item  sink  well  in. 
Her  hearers  held  their  breath. 

"  Mr.  Gore,  you  know,  is  a  wonderful  distinguished 
31 


THE     LADDER 

man,  unmarried  yet,  too,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  but 
he  and  Miss  Eve  made  a  match  of  it,  though  they're 
connections " 

But  this  was  an  unpardonable  error  in  the  story- 
teller's art;  for  it  was  as  bad  as  drawing  the  prover- 
bial red  herring  across  the  scent,  to  mention  a  possible 
marriage  before  the  Pillars.  Their  attention  was  at 
once  turned  aside  from  the  main  heroine  of  the  tale  to 
this  subordinate  character. 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  Have  they  been  going  about 
much  together?  Tell  us,  Aunt  Pillar,"  they  exclaimed 
in  a  breath. 

But  Aunt  Pillar  was  bent  on  reaching  the  climax  of 
her  story — she  would  not  be  drawn  aside,  but  waived 
these  questions,  and  went  on : 

"  They  had  come  to  see  the  old  lead  cistern.  I  gave 
Miss  Eve  a  chair,  and  she  began  to  chat  with  me,  and 
then  I  saw  Miriam  and  Mr.  Gore  were  talking  to- 
gether, quite  interested,  it  seemed.  I  heard  him  saying 
a  number  of  things  to  her  that  /  couldn't  understand, 
for  I  was  talking  to  Miss  Eve  and  listening  to  him, 
you  see." 

"  Yes,  exactly ;  go  on,"  the  sisters  cried. 

"  Well,  I  couldn't  make  out  what  they  were  saying, 
but  to  make  a  long  story  short,  they  must  have  got 
very  intimate  in  those  few  minutes,  for  what  was  my 
surprise  yesterday  to  have  another  call  from  Mr.  Gore 
— alone  this  time — and  it  was  to  ask  me  about  '  my 
niece,  Miriam  Sadler,'  if  you  please ! " 

"  Never !  "  they  ejaculated.  "  What  did  he  wish  to 
know  about  her  ?  " 

"  Her  circumstances,  no  less.  Was  she  badly  off  ? 
32 


TO     THE     STARS 

Where  had  she  been  educated  ?  Was  her  father  alive  ? 
A  great  many  questions,  I  can  assure  you,  and  ended 
with,  '  You  have  a  very  remarkable  young  relative, 
Mrs.  Pillar,  and  you  may  live  to  be  very  proud  of  her 
some  day.'  '  I  am  sure,  sir,'  says  I,  '  I'll  be  glad  and 
thankful  if  I  don't  live  to  be  ashamed  of  her.'  It  seems 
he  had  met  her  again  in  the  fields  on  Wednesday  even- 
ing, and — "  here  Aunt  Pillar  leaned  across  the  table, 
and  whispered  the  words — "  and  she  had  asked  him 
to  give  her  some  books!  " 

There  was  a  pause,  followed  by  a  babel  of  exclama- 
tion :  "  She's  crazy !  She's  demented !  She's  a  shame- 
less, impudent  girl !  What  will  Aunt  Sadler  say !  Is 
he  going  to  send  the  books  ?  " 

"  Well,  as  to  that,  he  said  he  was  very  pleased  to  be 
able  to  help  her,  and  was  going  to  send  her  the  books 
whenever  he  got  home.  But  what  your  Aunt  Sadler 
will  say  I  don't  know,  for  Mr.  Gore  has  the  name  of 
being  very  easy  in  his  beliefs " 

This  was  all  that  was  needed  to  give  a  climax  to  the 
thrilling  story. 

"  And  Aunt  Sadler  such  a  leading  member  with  Mr. 
Hobbes !  No  doubt  but  Miriam  has  taken  up  strange 
views,  too.  I  always  thought  there  was  something 
very  peculiar  about  her,"  said  Maggie. 

"  We'll  see  what  we'll  see,"  said  Aunt  Pillar ;  a  safe 
prophecy  which  had  a  sound  of  wisdom  in  it.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  begged  for  another  cup 
of  Matilda's  excellent  tea,  while  the  sisters  rained 
comments  on  the  story,  and  reviewed  it  in  all  its  pos- 
sible and  impossible  bearings. 


33 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   VI 

MIRIAM  felt  the  consequences  of  the  cousinly  con- 
clave next  afternoon.  Maggie  Broadman  had  been  in 
to  see  Mrs.  Sadler  in  the  morning,  and  had  sown  the 
seeds  of  difficulty.  Mrs.  Sadler  never  approached 
any  subject  directly,  she  had  not  enough  character 
to  do  so,  but  started  weakly  at  some  point  far  off  in 
her  mental  horizon,  and  slowly  directed  her  conversa- 
tion onward  from  that  point  to  the  one  she  wished  to 
reach.  So  this  afternoon  she  began  in  her  hesitating 
way: 

"  Miriam,  I've  been  reading  a  very  sad  article  in  the 
Methodist  Recorder  on  '  Some  Books  of  the  Day ' ;  I 
wish  you  would  read  it." 

"  Which  books  is  it  about  ?  "  Miriam  asked.  She 
had  a  deep  distrust  of  the  Methodist  Recorder. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  I  forget  the  names  of  the  books ; 
but  it  was  more  the  tendencies  of  the  day,"  said  Mrs. 
Sadler,  picking  nervously  at  her  work. 

"  Well?  "  said  Miriam.  She  could  not  imagine  what 
her  mother  was  driving  at. 

"  It  said  there  were  so  many  atheistical  works 
just  now.  I'm  sure  they  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  be 
printed." 

"  But  you  see,  mother,  that  would  scarcely  do ;  it 
would  infringe  the  liberty  of  the  press,"  the  girl  sug- 
gested. Mrs.  Sadler  shook  her  head;  such  general 

34 


TO     THE     STARS 

principles  as  the  liberty  of  the  subject  and  of  the  press 
did  not  appeal  to  her. 

"  I  do  hope  they  won't  ever  come  your  way,"  she 
said,  with  an  anxious  look  at  her  daughter. 

A  fear  shot  suddenly  through  Miriam's  mind;  was 
it  possible  that  her  mother  had  somehow  heard  about 
Mr.  Gore's  offer  of  the  books? 

Mrs.  Sadler  was  really  a  little  in  awe  of  her  daugh- 
ter; already  she  felt  the  stress  of  a  stronger  nature 
contending  with  her  own  at  many  points.  She  rose  up 
in  a  flutter,  letting  her  work  fall  to  the  floor,  and 
found  strength  to  speak  directly  at  last. 

"  Maggie  B roadman  came  to  me  with  such  a  story 
this  morning,  that  it's  quite  overset  me.  It  seems  Aunt 
Pillar  was  in  to  see  her  yesterday,  and  told  her  that 
that  freethinking  Mr.  Gore,  who  is  at  the  Manor,  has 
been  speaking  to  you,  and  offering  you  books — or  you 
asked  him  for  them — and  I  can't  believe  it,  that  you 
should  do  such  a  thing." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam.  "  I  did  ask  him  for  the  books, 
and  he  did  say  that  he  would  send  them  to  me." 

"  Oh,  my  dear !  and  him  a  freethinker !  But  maybe 
he  won't  send  them ;  at  least,  if  he  does,  you  must  send 
them  back  unread,  and  not  defile  your  mind  with 
them." 

"  In  the  first  place,"  Miriam  began,  "  perhaps  you 
are  quite  wrong  to  call  Mr.  Gore  a  freethinker;  and 
in  the  second  place  the  books  I  asked  for  are  not  on 
these  subjects.  I  asked  him  for  poems  and  histories 
and  novels." 

"  And  what  would  any  sensible  girl  do  reading 
poems  of  a  morning,  or  of  an  afternoon  either,  for 

35 


THE     LADDER 

that  matter  ?  Surely  you  learnt  all  the  history  you  want 
to  know  at  Miss  Cumper's,  and  we  all  know  what 
novels  are — just  lies." 

It  was  hopeless  to  argue  with  such  an  antagonist. 
Miriam  sat  silent,  and  her  mother  went  on: 

"  I  just  hope  he  will  forget  all  about  them ;  these 
busy  men  often  make  promises  and  forget  them.  Mr. 
Hobbes  says  that  offers  of  this  kind  have  to  do  with 
the  Elections  always,  though  how  you  could  have  to 
do  with  the  Elections  I  don't  see ;  but  Mr.  Hobbes  says 
they  get  into  the  habit  of  making  promises." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  it,"  said  Miriam,  with  a  lurk- 
ing smile  about  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  She  was 
anxious  to  end  the  subject,  and  decided  that,  after 
this,  complete  silence  about  the  books  must  be  main- 
tained. She  knew  that  when  the  books  failed  to  ap- 
pear, her  mother  would  conclude  that  Mr.  Gore's 
promise  had,  whether  owing  to  the  Elections  or  not, 
been  an  empty  one ;  and  she  must  be  allowed  to  believe 
this.  It  would  never  occur  to  Mrs.  Sadler  for  a  mo- 
ment that  Miriam  had  given  another  address  for  the 
books  to  be  sent  to ;  she  was  safe  to  receive  and  read 
them  in  comfort.  Only  how  had  Maggie  Broadman 
heard  anything  about  them?  Aunt  Pillar  must  have 
seen  Mr.  Gore.  Well,  Miriam  decided,  she  would  not 
trouble  herself  more  about  that. 

She  got  up  and  left  the  room  to  signify  that  the 
subject  was  at  an  end  between  them,  and  went  upstairs 
to  her  own  room,  a  little  dormer-window  chamber 
looking  out  upon  the  street.  A  tree  grew  in  the  gar- 
den below,  and  its  topmost  boughs  swept  against  the 
sill  of  the  window.  The  tender  green  leaves  of  early 

36 


TO     THE     STARS 

summer  had  burst  through  their  enclosing  sheaths  just 
now,  soft  and  fresh;  but  Miriam  noticed  that  one  of 
the  branches  was  growing  too  near  the  house,  and 
whenever  a  breath  of  wind  came,  the  young  leaves 
were  cruelly  scraped  against  the  rough  brick  wall. 
She  stood  watching  this,  and  thought  how  like  her  own 
life  it  was — every  shoot  she  put  out  toward  the  sky  got 
bruised  by  some  hard  wall  of  circumstance. 

This  may  have  been  rather  a  morbid  thought  for  a 
young  creature  to  indulge  in ;  but  it  was  true  enough. 
Miriam's  nature  turned  with  passionate  eagerness  to 
the  things  of  the  intellect ;  she  thirsted  for  knowledge 
with  a  thirst  that  was  almost  pain.  She  wanted  to 
know,  so  that  she  might  express;  but  as  yet  she  was 
unaware  that  this  was  the  reason  of  her  longing  for 
knowledge.  In  her  present  environment,  there  was 
about  as  much  chance  of  satisfying  these  longings  as  if 
she  had  been  in  the  Desert  of  Sahara. 

By  her  unlikeness  to  themselves,  she  had  alienated 
all  her  relatives;  not  even  the  mother  that  bore  her 
knew  what  Miriam  felt  on  any  subject. 

Sometimes,  in  a  sudden  girlish  craving  for  com- 
panionship, she  would  try,  awkwardly,  to  throw  herself 
into  the  interests  of  the  young  people  about  her.  But 
half  an  hour  of  their  talk  sent  her  home  with  a  baffled 
sense  of  defeat.  After  all,  perhaps  they  had  the  right 
of  it,  she  would  say  to  herself — with  their  flirtations 
and  their  petty  quarrels  and  pettier  friendships;  they 
at  least  seemed  to  enjoy  life,  which  was  more  than  she 
did,  and  they  would  marry  and  have  husbands  and 
children  of  their  own  before  long,  and  that  actually 
was  life,  wasn't  it?  while  she —  And  then  Miriam 

37 


THE     LADDER 

would  smile,  and  look  up  to  the  sky  with  a  sudden 
quickening  at  her  heart. 

Not  for  her  were  these  aims,  these  satisfactions. 
Would  it  ever  satisfy  her,  make  life  worth  living  for 
her,  that  young  Dr.  Pratt  should  admire  her?  Yet 
this  seemed  to  give  Emmie  Pillar  a  satisfaction  that 
"  Heaven  itself  is  powerless  to  bestow."  No ;  not  even 
the  life-long  and  whole-souled  affection  of  such  a  man 
as  Dr.  Pratt  could  ever  please  her.  "  Oh,  I'm  all 
wrong  somewhere,"  she  would  cry  out  to  herself.  "  I 
wish  I  could  feel  like  other  girls !  Emmie  is  so  pleased 
with  Dr.  Pratt's  attentions,  and  Grace,  though  she 
hasn't  any  admirers,  was  as  pleased  as  possible  all  last 
week  because  Maggie  brought  her  a  new  dress  from 
London ! " 

This  afternoon  Miriam  sat  looking  out  at  the  win- 
dow for  a  long  time  and  thought  very  deeply.  Then 
she  took  out  a  little  blank  book  and  a  pencil  and  began 
to  write  down  her  thoughts.  This  is  what  she  wrote : 

"  I  wish  to  enter  into  life  profoundly,  tasting  the 
best,  the  deepest,  it  has  to  give.  How  am  I  to  do 
this?" 

She  put  the  date  beneath  this  aspiring  sentence,  and 
sat  down  again  to  think.  How,  indeed,  was  she  to 
taste  the  best  life  had  to  offer ;  and  what  was  that,  in 
the  first  place?  She  almost  involuntarily  took  up  her 
pencil  again  to  write  down  her  thoughts — it  seemed 
to  give  them  coherence. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  best  of  life  really  is?  I  sup- 
pose it  is  different  for  each  person.  Emmie's  best  of 
life  would  not  be  mine.  Hers  would  be  to  be  admired 
by  a  great  lot  of  young  men,  whether  she  cared  for 

38 


TO     THE     STARS 

them  or  not ;  then  to  marry  one  of  them,  and  live  in  a 
house  furnished  very  handsomely,  and  wear  expensive 
clothes,  much  finer  than  the  other  women  she  knows 
could  afford.  She  would  put  on  these  fine  things 
and  go  out  to  call  on  her  poorer  neighbors  in  them, 
and  be  delighted  by  their  admiration. 

"  I  have  never  been  admired ;  men  don't  like  me ;  so 
I  do  not  know  if  that  would  please  me  much.  I  do  not 
think  it  would.  But,  oh,  I  do  desire  to  find  one  person 
who  quite  understands  me,  and  whom  I  understand; 
just  now  I  am  going  through  the  world  alone. 

"  Life  just  now  consists  of  this  for  me :  in  the  morn- 
ing I  do  housework  and  cooking ;  and  in  the  afternoon 
mother  likes  me  to  sit  and  sew  with  her,  but  I  gener- 
ally go  out ;  then  I  get  alone  for  an  hour  or  two  and 
can  think  interesting  thoughts.  But  when  I  come  in, 
I  perhaps  find  Mrs.  Hobbes  at  tea  with  mother,  and 
they  talk  about  the  price  of  meat,  or  how  Mrs.  Hobbes's 
little  servant  won't  rise  in  the  morning. 

"  Or  perhaps  it  is  one  of  the  Pillar  girls  who  has 
come  in,  and  she  will  talk  about  nothing  but  clothes, 
or  young  men.  Then  in  the  evening  mother  sews 
again,  and  talks,  or  takes  me  out  with  her  to  an  even- 
ing meeting  of  the  Christian  Institute;  and  so  life 
is  lived,  or  what  is  called  life  here.  Can  I  mend  it? 
Can  I  make  anything  out  of  it  ?  I  cannot  leave  home, 
as  Miss  Foxe  urges  me  to  do,  because  I  have  no  good 
excuse  for  doing  so.  Mother  is  kind  and  means  well 
by  me,  and  we  have  enough  to  live  upon  without  my 
earning  anything.  Oh,  what  am  I  going  to  do  ?  " 

The  pencil  fell  from  Miriam's  fingers,  and  she  hid 
her  face  in  her  hands  in  one  of  those  agonies  of  help- 

39 


THE     LADDER 

lessness,  of  impotence  against  Fate,  that  Youth  is 
prone  to.  After  a  little  she  looked  up  and  wrote  an- 
other sentence  into  her  book. 

"  I  must  put  something  into  my  life ;  for  there  is 
nothing  in  it !  What  shall  it  be  ?  " 

There  rose  in  her  troubled  mind  one  word  that 
seemed  to  have  some  comfort  in  it — Effort.  Let  her 
attempt  something,  whatever  it  was,  however  futile 
the  results  might  be.  Better  to  try  and  fail  even,  than 
not  to  try  at  all.  But  she  must  struggle  and  agonize 
by  herself,  without  a  soul  to  help  her  or  to  understand 
what  she  was  striving  after.  How  she  envied  Emmie 
Pillar  her  preoccupation  with  dress  and  men.  "  If  I 
only  could  want  something  possible,"  she  cried.  But 
she  could  not,  and  that  was  the  end  of  the  matter; 
she  was  predestined  to  attempt  the  unattainable  and 
desire  the  impossible,  and  she  had  better  make  up 
her  mind  that  it  would  always  be  thus  with  her. 


40 


TO    THE     STARS 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  occurred  to  Miriam  the  next  afternoon  that  she 
should  go  and  warn  Miss  Foxe  of  the  possible  arrival 
of  a  box  of  books  at  The  Old  House.  Mrs.  Sadler  en- 
tered her  usual  feeble  protest  against  this  afternoon 
walk. 

"  You  would  be  far  better  sewing,  my  dear ;  Mrs. 
Hobbes  is  very  anxious  for  more  workers  at  her  guild ; 
she  says  there's  scarcely  a  young  woman  nowadays 
can  cut  out  and  make  a  flannel  petticoat.  I  felt  quite 
ashamed  that  such  a  thing  should  be  said  of  my  daugh- 
ter, for  I  was  always  a  good  needlewoman  myself. 
I  don't  know  where  you  got  your  dislike  for  your 
needle ;  won't  you  just  stay  in  this  afternoon,  and  show 
Mrs.  Hobbes  you  can  do  it  ?  " 

If  Miriam  had  been  better  than  she  was,  this  pa- 
thetic appeal  must  have  touched  her  heart;  but,  alas, 
it  did  not. 

"  Oh,  mother,  I  can't  stay  in  and  sew  flannel  petti- 
coats to-day,"  she  cried  impatiently;  and  Mrs.  Sadler 
gave  a  disheartened  little  sigh,  and  said  no  more. 

The  walk  to  The  Old  House  was  a  very  pleasant  one 
— away  from  the  town ;  and  the  irritations  of  home  life 
seemed  to  fall  off  from  the  girl  as  she  walked  along. 
Miriam  loved  even  the  curious  fusty  smell  which  hung 
about  The  Old  House ;  it  seemed  to  breathe  something 
uncommon  and  unlike  the  rest  of  Hindcup ;  it  was  really 

41 


THE     LADDER 

the  smell  of  damp,  and  old  furniture,  but  she  did  not 
believe  this.  A  dark,  steep  stair  led  up  to  the  drawing- 
room,  and  as  she  came  up  it,  the  drawing-room  door 
opened  and  a  man  went  into  the  next  room.  A  man 
was  not  a  common  sight  in  Miss  Foxe's  house,  and 
Miriam  could  not  think  who  he  could  be.  She  hesitated 
whether  to  go  in  or  not;  but  the  maid  assured  her 
that  Miss  Foxe  was  quite  able  to  see  her,  so  she 
went  on. 

The  old  lady  gave  the  girl  her  usual  welcome,  and 
said  it  was  too  long  since  she  had  been  there. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?  Has  anything  been 
wrong  with  you  ?  "  she  asked. 

There  and  then  Miriam  poured  out  the  whole  story 
of  the  books,  Miss  Foxe  nodding  and  smiling  at  every 
pause  in  the  narrative. 

"  Quite  right,  quite  right.  I  suppose  most  old  peo- 
ple would  say  you  were  quite  wrong,  but  I  don't ;  you 
have  done  quite  wisely." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you !  "  Miriam  cried.  She 
was  so  accustomed  to  an  atmosphere  of  disapproval, 
that  Miss  Foxe's  words  warmed  her  like  sunshine. 

"  Then  you  don't  think  I  was  wrong,  and  I  may 
come  and  read  here  every  day,  if  the  books  come  ?  " 

"  Every  day,  as  long  as  you  please.  Though,  of 
course,  your  mother  will  wonder  why  you  come  here ; 
it  will  have  to  be  done  openly  before  long."  This  diffi- 
culty had  not  occurred  to  Miriam.  "  I  could  keep  the 
books  here,  and  take  them  to  read  at  home  one  by 
one,"  she  suggested. 

"  Yes,  till  your  mother  found  you  reading  them  at 
home." 

42 


TO     THE     STARS 

"And  then?" 

"  Then,  as  I  have  always  told  you,  you  must  remind 
your  mother  that  you  are  of  a  reasonable  age,  and 
must  be  allowed  to  exercise  your  reason;  but  delay 
this  scene  as  long  as  you  can — try  gentle  measures." 

In  the  meantime  the  books  had  not  yet  arrived, 
and  there  was  time  to  consider  the  subject  carefully ;  so 
Miss  Foxe  thought  she  might  introduce  another  topic. 

"  Max  Courteis  is  here — my  nephew — I'll  send  for 
him.  I  want  him  to  see  you,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  heard  you  speak  about  him,"  said  Miriam. 
"  Is  he  not  very  clever  ?  He  has  something  to  do  with 
writing,  has  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  other  people's  writing ;  that's  why  I 
wish  him  to  see  you.  He  can  sample  talent  as  some 
men  can  sample  tea  or  wine.  It  is  his  profession ;  he 
has  a  special  talent  for  it — a  special  insight.  To  be 
quite  frank  with  you,  I  asked  him  down  here  very 
much  because  of  you." 

"  O  Miss  Foxe !  " 

"  I  thought  he  might  assist  you.  Don't  be  afraid  of 
him,  or  mind  his  absent  manner,  or  his  bullying  man- 
ner; he  has  both,  and  I  cannot  say  which  he  will  as- 
sume to  you,  most  likely  the  absent  one,  unless  he  takes 
a  sudden  liking  for  you."  Miriam  shook  in  her  shoes ; 
she  did  not  feel  equal  to  meeting  such  a  formidable 
person. 

Miss  Foxe  went  into  the  next  room,  and  through 
the  open  door  came  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  that 
of  the  man  she  spoke  to,  though  what  they  said  was 
inaudible.  In  a  few  minutes  she  returned,  bringing 
her  nephew  with  her.  Max  Courteis  was  a  tall,  gray- 

43 


THE     LADDER 

haired  man,  who  came  in  looking  as  if  he  did  not  know 
where  he  was  going.  He  did  not  seem  to  direct  his 
course  toward  any  special  chair,  or,  indeed,  to  see 
anything  in  the  room,  but  sat  down  in  a  haphazard 
kind  of  way  on  the  first  seat  that  presented  itself. 

What  then  was  Miriam's  surprise,  almost  terror,  a 
minute  later,  to  look  up  and  find  herself  the  subject 
of  a  scrutiny  the  most  intense  she  had  ever  undergone. 
She  started  in  alarm,  but  the  next  minute  Mr.  Cour- 
teis  seemed  to  be  looking  blankly  at  the  opposite  wall, 
as  if  he  did  not  know  she  was  in  existence. 

"  I  came  down  to  the  country  for  solitude,"  he  said 
abruptly,  "  and  now  my  aunt  brings  me  in  here  to 
talk  to  you." 

Miriam  looked  up.  "  I  have  nothing  to  talk  with 
you  about,"  she  said  gravely.  "  I  know  nothing  about 
anything." 

Courteis  turned  quickly  at  her  words  and  looked  at 
her  again. 

"  I  wonder  who  does  know  anything  ?  "  he  said  in 
an  amused  voice. 

"  I  think  that  a  number  of  learned  people  know 
about  things,"  she  ventured  to  say. 

"Learning?"  said  Courteis,  with  inexpressible  con- 
tempt in  his  voice.  "  What  does  learning  matter  ? 
Ideas  are  the  rub." 

"  Do*  not  ideas  spring  from  learning?"  Miriam 
asked  timidly. 

Courteis  jumped  up  and  began  to  walk  about  the 
room  in  his  blundering  way,  as  if  he  would  knock 
down  the  furniture. 

"  O  Lord ! "  he  said,  with  a  sudden  laugh. 
44 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Ideas  spring  from  learning !  It's  evident  you  have 
met  few  learned  persons !  " 

Miriam  was  a  little  rebuffed  by  his  rough  manner; 
she  shrank  up  into  herself. 

"  I  have  met  none  at  all,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  take  my  advice,  and  avoid  them  like  the 
plague;  they  are  the  very  death  of  originality,"  he 
replied. 

"  I  had  supposed  it  was  quite  the  other  way,"  said 
Miriam.  She  became  primmer  and  expressed  herself 
in  more  stilted  language,  as  she  was  more  frightened 
by  Courteis's  manner. 

"  Well,  then,  you  were  quite  wrong,"  he  said,  paus- 
ing beside  her  chair;  he  seemed  to  be  looking  out  at 
the  window,  not  at  her,  so  Miriam  found  courage  to 
say,  with  her  funny  little  lurking  smile  at  the  corners 
of  her  mouth,  that  Hindcup  should  be  a  very  original 
place,  by  his  showing. 

"  No  doubt  it  is ;  we  are  all  getting  rubbed  down  to 
hateful  uniformity  in  towns,"  he  said ;  "  you,  for  in- 
stance, would  never  grow  in  London.  When  would 
a  town  young  woman  say  she  knew  nothing,  and  want 
to  be  in  the  society  of  learned  people?  Oh,  no;  you 
get  fine  fresh  stuff  in  the  provinces." 

Miriam  was  really  amused  now;  she  laughed  natu- 
rally and  heartily,  and  forgot  to  feel  afraid. 

"  You  should  come  and  live  in  Hindcup,  Mr.  Cour- 
teis,"  she  said.  "  I  think  it  would  very  soon  cure  you 
of  these  ideas." 

"  I  am  going  to  do  something  for  my  nephew's  sake 
that  I  have  not  done  for  years,"  said  Miss  Foxe,  who 
had  listened  to  their  conversation  with  some  amuse- 
4  45 


THE     LADDER 

ment.  "  I  am  going  to  take  him  to  the  fete  at  Hindcup 
Manor  next  week." 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  go  there  ?  "  Miriam  asked. 
"  I  always  find  these  fetes  so  painful." 

"  Ah,  you  see  them  the  right  way,  then,"  said  Cour- 
teis.  "  Of  course  they  are  painful — painful  and  ridic- 
ulous. One  class  making  believe  to  be  friendly  with 
another  for  one  day,  and  all  for  its  own  ends.  I  want 
to  see  it  for  ends  of  my  own,  too,  you  may  be  sure. 
You  are  going,  Miss  Sadler?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  am,"  said  Miriam,  with  an 
earnestness  that  surprised  her  hearers.  She  rose  sud- 
denly, and  held  out  her  hand  to  Miss  Foxe,  saying 
she  must  be  home  before  six  o'clock. 

"  Why,  it  is  not  nearly  six  o'clock  yet,"  Miss  Foxe 
said.  But  Miriam  seemed  to  wish  to  go,  and  no  per- 
suasions would  make  her  change  her  mind. 


46 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MIRIAM  found  her  mother  talking  with  Mrs.  Hobbes 
on  this  very  subject  of  the  fete  at  the  Manor,  when  she 
came  home. 

"  Mrs.  Hobbes  has  come  in  to  arrange  with  us  about 
Thursday,"  she  said.  "  Mr.  Hobbes  has  engaged  a 
char-a-bancs  for  the  choir,  so  that  they  may  have  a 
little  music  on  the  road,  and  they  have  two  vacant 
seats,  and  Mr.  Hobbes  kindly  says  will  we  come  with 
them?" 

"  Music  on  the  road "  was  not  a  very  attractive 
thought  to  Miriam.  She  was  silent  for  a  minute,  won- 
dering how  to  evade  the  unwelcome  invitation. 

"  Don't  you  wish  to  go  to  the  fete  at  all  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Hobbes. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  I  wish  to  go,"  the  girl  exclaimed 
with  the  same  surprising  earnestness  she  had  shown 
to  Miss  Foxe  about  the  fete. 

"  Then  surely  we  couldn't  do  better  than  go  in  the 
char-a-bancs"  Mrs.  Sadler  pleaded.  There  was  no  pos- 
sible escape,  so  it  was  agreed  that  in  the  char-a-bancs 
they  would  go.  After  all,  Miriam  thought,  what  would 
it  matter — what  would  anything  matter — if  only  she 
might  catch  a  glimpse  again  of  Mr.  Alan  Gore's  face, 
or  perhaps — if  Heaven  was  kind — hear  an  echo  of  that 
golden  voice ! 

"  They  say  it  will  be  a  very  fine  affair  this  year," 
Mrs.  Sadler  pursued.  "  The  band  from  Goodhamp- 

47 


THE     LADDER 

ton  is  to  be  there,  and  there  are  to  be  races  for  the 
youths,  with  prizes,  and  the  gardens  are  to  be  open 
to  the  public,  and  tea  in  a  tent  for  all — altogether  very 
fine.  I  had  it  all  from  my  sister,  Susan  Pillar."  Mrs. 
Sadler  took  her  pleasures  sadly,  but  she  seemed  to  find 
a  certain  lackluster  satisfaction  in  retailing  all  these 
items  to  Mrs.  Hobbes. 

"  Dear  me !  It  will  be  a  great  treat  for  us  all,  I'm 
sure,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbes.  "  Then  I'll  tell  Mr.  Hobbes 
it  is  all  arranged  that  you  and  Miriam  drive  with  the 
choir.  Good  night,  Mrs.  Sadler,  I  must  be  off ;  there's 
a  meeting  this  evening,  you  know,  and  supper  still  to 
get.  Good  night." 

The  days  rather  lagged  for  Miriam  till  this  Thurs- 
day of  the  fete.  It  broke  bright  and  warm.  For  some 
days  she  had  had  to  listen  to  all  that  Emmie  and  Grace 
Pillar  had  to  say  about  their  clothes  for  the  occasion. 
"  The  question  is,  is  it  to  be  my  blue  toque,  or  the 
black  straw  with  pink  roses  ?  "  Emmie  had  said  when- 
ever they  met.  "  7  like  the  blue  toque  myself,  but 
I've  an  idea — mind,  it's  just  an  idea,  but  I  have  it — 
that  some  one  else  likes  the  straw  with  the  roses.  He 
gave  me  a  pink  rosebud,  you  remember,  at  the  Flower 
Show  last  year.  I  have  it  still,  though  I  wouldn't  have 
him  know  that  for  worlds." 

"  O  Emmie,  do  make  up  your  mind  one  way  or 
other!"  Miriam  said  impatiently;  and  Emmie  (truly) 
observed  that  her  cousin  was  horridly  unsympathetic. 
Miriam's  own  toilet  was  of  her  usual,  unsuccessful 
kind.  She,  alas,  was  the  type  of  woman  who  invari- 
ably puts  on  the  wrong  hat,  even  if  she  happens  to  have 
hit  upon  the  right  dress.  If  she  ever  looked  well — and 

48 


TO     THE     STARS 

she  occasionally  did — it  was  entirely  by  accident.  But 
to-day,  I  am  forced  to  admit  that  her  clothes  were  un- 
fortunate. 

The  three  miles  to  the  Manor  seemed  very  long — 
even  enlivened  by  music — for  the  roads  were  dusty, 
and  the  char-a-bancs  was  not  a  luxurious  vehicle.  Al- 
though it  was  early  in  the  day,  the  natives  of  Hindcup 
were  already  disporting  themselves  under  the  trees, 
waiting  for  their  entertainers  to  appear.  They  stood 
about  in  groups,  talking  and  laughing,  and  gaping  at 
the  smart  uniforms  of  the  bandsmen,  who,  in  their 
turn,  smiled  at  the  vacant  rustic  faces,  and  thought 
themselves  very  fine.  The  well-to-do  townspeople 
kept  themselves  a  little  apart  from  their  poor  neigh- 
bors, and  affected  a  metropolitan  indifference  to  the 
band.  Miriam  would  rather  have  stayed  among  the 
working  people — old  cottage  women  in  sunbonnets, 
and  young  women  carrying  babies,  and  laborers  in 
their  Sunday  clothes;  but  Mrs.  Sadler  frowned  upon 
such  an  idea. 

"  You  must  come  over  among  your  cousins,  my 
dear,"  she  said.  "  See,  there's  Maggie  Broadman  in 
the  new  dress  she  got  down  from  London ;  she  do  look 
very  well,  I  declare." 

As  Miriam  came  across  to  where  her  cousins  stood, 
Maggie  openly  exclaimed  at  her  dowdy  appearance. 

"  I  do  wish  Miriam  were  not  such  a  bad  dresser ! " 
she  said.  "  No  man  will  ever  look  at  her — the  way 
she  throws  on  her  things." 

"  Good  morning,  Maggie,"  said  Miriam,  and  then, 
as  usual,  found  she  had  nothing  else  she  wanted  to 
say.  Just  then,  however,  the  band  began  to  tune  up, 

49 


THE     LADDER 

there  was  a  stir  among  the  village  people,  and  in  the 
distance  Sir  Samuel  and  Lady  Joyce  appeared  with 
their  friends.  Had  Sir  Samuel  Joyce  been  born  a 
poor  man,  he  would  never  have  been  respected  by 
anyone,  but  as  he  happened  to  have  many  lands  and 
much  money,  he  had  a  great  local  reputation.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  to  find  a  less  intelligent 
man,  in  many  ways,  yet  he  had  his  own  little  narrow 
ideas  of  the  duties  of  a  landlord  toward  his  tenantry, 
and  these  he  did  his  best  to  live  up  to.  This  annual 
business  of  the  fete  was  one  of  these  ideas.  He 
thought  it  encouraged  good  feeling  between  the  dif- 
ferent classes. 

As  Sir  Samuel  and  Lady  Joyce  came  nearer,  Maggie 
Broadman  shook  out  the  flounces  of  her  new  dress, 
and  arranged  herself  to  the  best  advantage ;  she  did 
not  really  expect  to  be  noticed  personally  by  Lady 
Joyce,  but  she  wished  to  be. 

"  Who  is  that  gentleman  with  them  ?  Who  will 
he  be,  I  wonder?"  she  whispered.  "And  that's  Miss 
Eve  Joyce,  and  I  wonder  who  the  other  lady  is,  about 
the  same  age?  Very  stylishly  dressed  both  of  them. 
There's  Sir  Samuel  stopping  to  speak  to  old  Mrs. 
Clarke." 

Something  made  Miriam  move  away  from  the  vi- 
cinity of  her  cousin ;  she  strolled  over  to  where  the 
children  were  playing,  and  stood  leaning  against  a 
tree  to  watch  their  games. 

As  she  stood  there  she  saw  Miss  Foxe  and  her 
nephew  coming  across  the  park.  They  were  speaking 
together,  not  to  any  of  the  townspeople.  Courteis 
came  up  to  her  immediately. 

50 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Isn't  it  delicious  ?  "  he  asked ;  "  this  sort  of  thing 
that  makes  one  squirm  with  joy  at  human  absurdity. 
The  poor  so  humbly  pleased  with  the  grand  enter- 
tainment given  them  by  the  rich — the  patronage  of  it 
all !  " 

Miriam  looked  up  and  smiled — her  smile  expressed 
a  very  complete  understanding  of  the  scene  before 
them. 

"  You  see  it  all,  of  course  ?  "  he  said. 

She  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  See  it !  "  she  exclaimed  suddenly.  "  I  feel  it,  down 
to  my  fingers  and  toes !  " 

"  Why  don't  you  write  it  down,  then  ?  "  said  Cour- 
teis.  He  came  close  up  to  where  she  stood.  Miriam 
started. 

"  I — write  it  ?  "  she  stammered. 

"  Yes,  all  about  it — the  truth  that  you  see.  I  tell 
you  what,  if  you  do  something  good,  I'll  publish  it  in 
The  Advance  Guard — my  magazine." 

Miriam  stood  as  still  as  Lot's  wife,  turned  rigid 
it  seemed  by  looking  forward  instead  of  looking 
back. 

"  I  know  nothing  about  it — about  writing,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"  Look  here,"  said  Courteis.  "  Come  and  walk  over 
there  among  the  trees  with  me,  and  talk."  Miriam 
obeyed  him  mechanically  and  he  went  on :  "  You  don't 
know  anything  about  writing ;  and  nothing  about  life ; 
you  have  to  learn  about  both  of  them.  But  I  know 
what's  there,  behind  your  eyes;  good  fresh  stuff  that 
hasn't  been  used  before." 

He  paused,  and  Miriam  interpolated: 
51 


THE     LADDER 

"  Good  provincial  stuff."  At  which  they  both 
laughed. 

"  Yes,  just  so ;  well,  the  words  will  come  right 
enough,  and  for  methods — you  have  that  for  your  puz- 
zle— to  invent  one.  Time  and  trouble  will  teach  you 
the  rest." 

He  walked  on  in  silence  for  a  little  looking  on  the 
ground,  and  then  added :  "  I  had  to  be  a  very  miserable 
man  before  I  did  anything,  and  most  people  find  it  the 
same  way." 

"Would  happiness  not  do  it?"  she  asked  timidly. 
Her  young  heart  wanted  a  pleasanter  recipe  for  suc- 
cess than  the  one  he  had  given  her.  Courteis  consid- 
ered for  a  little  before  he  answered. 

"  Exquisite  happiness  will,  sometimes — the  kind 
that  comes  to  about  one  man  or  woman  in  ten  thou- 
sand. Most  of  us,  you  know,  are  content  with 
makeshifts  of  joy — ecstasy  is  an  unknown  sensation 
to  the  vast  majority  of  the  world.  I  wonder  why? 
If  I  had  been  at  the  making  of  things,  I'd  have  done 
it  differently;  trained  men  by  ecstasies  of  happiness, 
instead  of  by  this  time-honored  method  of  exquisite 
misery.  I  expect  it  would  have  done  quite  as  well,  too ; 
it's  extremes  of  temperature  that  are  needed  to  try 
us,  and  heat  would  have  done  as  well  as  cold,  surely." 

He  kicked  a  stone  off  the  path  and  walked  on  in 
silence. 

"  I  have  had  no  extremes  in  my  life ;  it  has  all  been 
at  one  quite  uninteresting  temperature,"  said  Miriam. 

The  man  beside  her  laughed. 

"  As  if  you  needed  to  tell  me  that ! "  he  said  con- 
temptuously. 


TO     THE     STARS 

Miriam  drew  back  into  her  shell  in  a  moment;  for 
nothing  hurts  inexperience  so  deeply  as  any  recogni- 
tion of  it.  Then,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  wounded 
pride,  she  exclaimed  hotly: 

"  Perhaps  I  will  astonish  you  all  some  day,  in  spite 
of  my  inexperience." 

Courteis  laughed  aloud. 

"  Of  course  you  will ;  that's  to  say,  you  won't 
surprise  me  in  the  least;  but  your  own  people  won't 
know  where  it  all  comes  from.  But  I  won't  be  aston- 
ished; do  you  suppose  I  go  about  the  country  asking 
many  young  women  to  write  for  The  Advance 
Guard?  " 

"  I  am  so  inexperienced,"  said  Miriam,  "  that  I 
might  almost  have  thought  that  you  did." 

Already  the  sense  that  she  was  believed  in  had 
given  her  courage;  a  week  ago  she  would  have  been 
incapable  of  this  retort. 

"  Come,  don't  take  anything  I  say  amiss,"  said  Cour- 
teis. "  What  I  mean  is  only  this,  that  you  want  to 
grow." 

" '  Which  of  us,  by  taking  thought,  can  add  one 
cubit  to  his  stature  ?  '  "  Miriam  quoted.  She  walked 
along  by  his  side,  a  tall,  ill-dressed  young  woman,  not 
lovable,  not  desirable,  from  the  man's  point  of  view, 
as  Courteis  tacitly  and  coarsely  put  it  to  himself ;  but 
with  just  something  in  everything  she  said  that  marked 
her  as  entirely  different  from  other  women. 

"  What  will  time  make  of  her  ? "  Courteis  asked 
himself. 

"  Tell  me  something  about  your  life  ? "  he  added 
aloud. 

53 


THE     LADDER 

"  About  my  life,  Mr.  Courteis,  there  is  nothing  to 
tell.  I  live  with  my  mother  in  an  uninteresting  little 
house  at  the  corner  of  New  Street — not  even  in  the 
nice  old  part  of  Hindcup;  we  have  one  little  servant, 
and  enough  of  money  to  have  comfortable  food  and 
clothes.  Mother  goes  a  great  deal  to  chapel.  I  have 
a  number  of  cousins  in  Hindcup,  but  I  do  not  get  on 
with  them.  I  have  no  friends,  except  your  aunt,  Miss 
Foxe.  I  have  been  at  a  school  at  Goodhampton ;  but 
three  years  ago  they  said  my  education  was  finished, 
though  I  know  nothing,  so  I  came  home.  I  have 
nothing  to  do  in  life." 

"  That  sounds  blank  enough,"  said  Courteis. 

"  Women  are  made  for  misery,  I  think,"  said 
Miriam  bitterly.  "  Now,  if  I  were  a  man,  no  one 
would  expect  me  to  live  this  wretched  sort  of  life;  I 
would  be  allowed  to  do  and  think  and  go  where  I 
pleased." 

"  The  old  story ;  well,  I  see  how  it  is.  I  see  how 
you  live,  deeply  sunk  in  the  social  morass.  I  know  the 
sort  of  thing  perfectly.  Now,  what  you  have  to  find 
out  is  all  about  it.  You  have  the  temperament ;  that's 
to  say,  you  can  recognize  your  desperate  situation, 
and  not  your  own  only,  but  that  of  all  your  class. 
The  more  you  recognize  it  the  better.  Steep  yourself 
in  its  limitations;  try  to  imagine  yourself  into  their 
state  of  mind ;  become  as  one  of  them,  and  then  pro- 
duce a  picture  of  it  all.  Do  you  see?  " 

"  Perhaps  a  little,"  said  Miriam,  with  reserve ;  and 
Courteis  went  on: 

"  Arrived  there — at  the  point  of  describing  it  all — 
you  have  yourself  escaped,  a  case  of  '  Christian  at 

54 


TO     THE     STARS 

morning  looks  back  into  Hell,'  or  whatever  the  pic- 
ture is." 

Here  was  a  new  idea  for  Miriam,  that  her  very  fet- 
ters should  be  the  instrument  of  her  liberation!  She 
drew  a  long  breath  of  the  most  intense  interest.  See- 
ing this,  Courteis  went  on : 

"  Then  when  you  see  more,  you  will  understand  the 
tragic  difference  between  man  and  man,  and  between 
class  and  class." 

"  I  know  that  already,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  so  much  the  better.  Write  all  you  know, 
and  nothing  else,  and  you  will  be  all  right.  Send  it 
to  me.  I'm  curious  to  see  the  sort  of  thing  you  will 
produce." 

"  But  how  do  I  begin  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Do  you  think  I  can  give  you  a  recipe  for  it  ?  as 
if  it  were  a  pudding?  I  thought  you  were  more  in- 
telligent, Miss  Sadler." 

Miriam  folded  her  lips  tightly.  They  walked  on  in 
silence. 

"  You  see,  I  never  mind  about  hurting  the  feelings 
of  those  I  wish  to  help,"  said  Courteis.  "  It's  no  use 
trying  to  help  people  if  you  are  too  tender  of  their 
feelings." 

"  How  clever  you  are !  "  Miriam  exclaimed  in  spite 
of  herself.  She  felt,  she  thought,  like  a  horse  in  the 
hands  of  a  skillful  driver. 

"  Yes,  in  that  way  I'm  clever  enough.  I  can  get 
other  people  to  do  what  I  can't  do  myself.  That's 
where  my  talent  lies,  that's  how  I've  made  The  Ad- 
vance Guard  what  it  is.  I  picked  up  the  men  that 
write  for  it,  like  jewels  out  of  the  dust.  I  told  them 

55 


THE     LADDER 

what  they  could  do,  and  they  have  done  it.  I  found 
them;  now  I  have  found  you,  I  hope." 

Miriam  turned  round  and  held  out  her  hand  sud- 
denly to  him.  He  took  it,  and  shook  it  kindly  enough, 
giving  her  one  of  those  penetrating  looks  that  terrified 
her. 

"  Good  luck  to  you,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said.  "  I'll  do 
what  I  can  for  you;  but  Fate  and  yourself  will  do 
more."  To  himself  he  added  in  his  coarse,  undeni- 
able way: 

"  She's  no  good  as  a  woman;  yet — I  wonder  if  she'll 
wake  up  soon !  " 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   IX 

As  Miriam  and  Max  Courteis  stood  there  together, 
two  people  came  walking  toward  them  through  the 
sun-dappled  oak-glade. 

"  There  is  Lady  Joyce,"  said  Miriam ;  but  she  did 
not  add,  "  and  Mr.  Alan  Gore."  She  stepped  aside 
a  little  awkwardly  as  they  advanced. 

Lady  Joyce  had  decided  to  shake  hands  and  smile 
whenever  she  met  anyone  that  day ;  so  she  stopped  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  this  girl,  although  she  really  had 
no  idea  who  she  was. 

"  You  are  one  of  my  guests,"  she  said,  "  but  I  am 
stupid  enough  to  have  forgotten  your  name." 

Miriam  was  beginning  to  explain  who  she  was,  when 
Alan  Gore  anticipated  her  words: 

"  I  can  introduce  you,  Lady  Joyce,"  he  said.  "  This 
is  Miriam  Sadler,  the  niece  of  your  Mrs.  Pillar." 

"  Oh,  really !  Yes,  how  stupid  I  am,"  said  Lady 
Joyce.  She  turned  to  speak  to  Courteis  then,  and 
Alan  Gore  greeted  him  as  an  old  acquaintance.  They 
had  evidently  met  before.  "  You  here,  Courteis  ?  " 
he  said,  with  some  surprise. 

They  all  stood  speaking  together  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  then  Lady  Joyce  suggested  they  should 
walk  on. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will  let  me  take  Miriam  Sadler 
into  the  house  to  see  the  Blake  pictures  ?  "  said  Gore, 
as  they  went  down  the  path.  "  I  was  speaking  to  her 

57 


THE     LADDER 

about  one  of  them  the  other  day."  He  said  this  in  a 
low  voice,  that  neither  Miriam  nor  Courteis  could 
hear;  they  had  fallen  behind  their  entertainers. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  told  me  about  the  girl,  I  remember ; 
do  take  her,"  said  Lady  Joyce.  She  turned  round  as 
she  spoke,  and  said  to  Miriam : 

"  Would  you  care  to  see  some  Blake  pictures  we 
have?  Mr.  Gore  tells  me  you  are  interested  in  these 
things." 

"  Yes,  I  should  like  it,"  she  answered.  She  could 
not  find  words  in  which  to  express  her  pleasure  ade- 
quately. 

"  I  must  go  and  look  up  my  relative,"  said  Courteis, 
smiling  as  he  looked  from  one  of  the  little  group  to  the 
other.  He  turned  off  down  a  side  path,  and  Lady 
Joyce  went  on  toward  the  park.  Miriam  found  herself 
walking  alone  with  Alan  Gore. 

He  wore  no  hat,  and  seemed  to  rejoice  in  the  wind 
and  the  sunshine,  as  he  walked  unhurriedly  along,  ap- 
parently unconscious  that  the  groups  of  townspeople 
they  now  began  to  meet  were  looking  curiously  at  him 
and  at  his  companion.  She,  poor  girl,  was  far  from 
unconscious  of  the  scrutiny  she  underwent  from  her 
neighbors,  and  she  blushed  painfully  as  she  saw  that 
her  cousin  Matilda  had  observed  them.  Mr.  Gore, 
however,  sauntered  along  without  any  knowledge  of 
the  attention  they  excited,  or,  perhaps,  she  thought, 
a  man  like  him  was  so  accustomed  to  being  looked  at 
that  he  didn't  mind  it  in  the  least. 

They  came  at  last  to  the  front  door  of  the  Manor. 
Never  had  Miriam  thought  to  enter  by  this  sacred 
portal — how  often  she  had  hurried  in  by  the  back  en- 

58 


TO     THE     STARS 

trance,  undreaming  of  such  an  honor  as   now   was 
hers! 

She  glanced  at  her  conductor,  and  wondered  how  he 
could  be  so  indifferent  to  these  splendors — the  foot- 
men at  the  door,  the  size  and  height  of  the  hall,  as 
they  came  in,  the  wealth  of  objects  around  them. 
Miriam  held  her  breath  in  awe.  The  magnificent  foot- 
men looked  at  her  inquiringly ;  she  wanted  to  scurry 
past  them,  but  Mr.  Gore  would  not  hasten  the  least 
bit  for  any  of  their  staring.  It  seemed  to  her  that  it 
took  about  an  hour  for  them  to  walk  slowly  down  that 
hall  with  those  two  silent  staring  men  looking  at  them 
and  listening  to  them.  For  Mr.  Gore  talked  on,  with- 
out lowering  his  voice  in  the  least,  just  as  if  he  did 
not  care  whether  the  footmen  heard  or  not.  To  be 
sure,  it  was  only  about  Blake's  pictures  that  he  talked ; 
but  Miriam  knew,  if  he  did  not,  that  the  two  men  were 
wondering  what  on  earth  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece  had  to  do 
with  Blake's  pictures,  or  what  right  she  had  to  walk 
in  at  the  front  door  along  with  Mr.  Alan  Gore. 

This  ordeal  past,  however,  she  gave  herself  up  to 
the  delights  of  observation.  Thus  the  better  world 
lived !  She  gazed  at  the  rooms  they  passed  through, 
taking  in  with  pitiful  quickness  every  detail  of  their 
arrangement. 

In  the  library,  Gore  brought  her  a  chair  and  went 
to  get  out  the  Blake  drawings.  These  he  laid  on  the 
table  before  her,  and  sitting  down  beside  her,  began 
to  explain  the  strange  imagery  of  the  pictures. 

As  his  explanation  ended,  a  silence  fell  between 
them.  Miriam  was  surprised  to  find  herself  break- 
ing it. 

59 


THE     LADDER 

"  Does  it  not  seem  hard  that  half  the  world  should 
have  access  to  all  this,  and  the  other  half  be  shut  out 
from  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

Gore  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  looking  straight  at 
her  with  his  kind,  clever  eyes. 

"  Yes,  it  does,"  he  said  frankly.  "  And  then  one 
remembers  something  that  equalizes  it.  The  men  that 
make  these  splendid  things — things  like  Blake's  poems 
and  pictures — they  are  the  wonder,  far  more  than 
what  they  produce;  rich  people  may  be  able  to  buy 
pictures  and  books,  but  they  can't  buy  the  power  to 
produce  them.  What  sort  of  a  world  did  Blake  live 
in?  A  garret  in  London,  no  money  to  buy  food, 
scarcely  money  to  buy  paints,  yet  such  men  as  he  make 
our  culture;  he  had  the  something  none  of  us  can 
buy.  There's  the  essential  justice  of  things,  that  no 
one  class  can  have  the  monopoly  of  genius,  except," 
he  added  with  a  laugh,  "  except  that  rich  men  seldom 
or  never  have  it,  so  the  poor  get  the  monopoly  there !  " 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  so  ?  "  said  Miriam,  deeply  in- 
terested. 

"  I  know  it." 

"  But  do  circumstances — advantages — not  make 
men  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Not  half  as  much  as  men  make  their  circum- 
stances, it  seems  to  me." 

Miriam  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  Did  he  not  him- 
self contradict  what  he  asserted?  Did  he  not  stand 
there  before  her,  a  man  who  seemed  the  very  flower 
of  the  human  race,  the  product  of  inherited  gifts 
and  graces  that  were  denied  to  men  of  meaner  birth? 
She  shook  her  head. 

60 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I  don't  quite  believe  it,  I  am  afraid,"  she  said. 
Gore  leaned  forward  with  the  eagerness  of  a  born 
arguer. 

"  But  you  must  not  hold  these  views !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  They  are  all  wrong !  Why,  the  gifts  of  fortune,  all 
this  for  instance"  (he  indicated  the  beautiful  room  with 
its  books  and  pictures),  "  these  are  all  valuable  in  their 
way,  of  course;  but  what  you  want  really  to  value  is 
the  brain  behind  it  all ;  the  brain  that  wrote  the  books 
and  painted  the  pictures.  Money  collected  them  here, 
and  holds  them,  but  brain  made  them.  Surely  you 
would  rather  have  the  one  than  the  other,  rather  be 
able  to  produce  good  work  yourself  than  possess  all 
the  art  treasures  of  the  world  ?  " 

"  I  think  possessing  beautiful  things  like  these  would 
help  one  to  produce  good  work,"  said  Miriam,  stick- 
ing to  her  guns. 

"  Indeed,  I  think  it  is  only  a  hindrance,"  said  Gore. 
"  Much  better  not  to  have  too  many  so-called  advan- 
tages." He  paused,  wondering  for  a  moment  why  he 
had  been  led  into  such  an  argument  with  this  girl, 
who,  after  all,  had  never  shown  any  capacity  that  he 
knew  of  for  artistic  production  of  any  kind.  But  just 
as  he  was  thinking  this,  Miriam  exclaimed,  as  if  she 
could  not  keep  back  the  news  any  longer : 

"  Oh,  sir,  Mr.  Gore,  I  have  had  something  extraor- 
dinary happen  to  me.  Mr.  Courteis  wishes  me  to  write 
something  for  him." 

She  stopped  then,  half-ashamed  of  her  sudden  con- 
fidence, half-proud  to  have  it  to  give. 

"And  I  hope  you  are  going  to  try?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

5  61 


THE     LADDER 

"  I  am  almost  afraid  to  try — it  would  disappoint  me 
so  sorely  to  fail,  and  how  could  I  succeed  ?  " 

Gore  rose  and  began  to  walk  about  the  room. 
Miriam  sat  in  silence,  waiting  for  him  to  speak  again. 
At  last  he  came  and  sat  down  beside  her  again. 

"Have  you  known  Courteis  for  long?"  he  asked, 
and  she  thought  she  distinguished  a  note  of  coldness 
in  his  voice. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  only  saw  him  last  week  for  the  first  time. 
His  aunt,  Miss  Foxe,  I  have  known  for  several  years." 

"  You  know  he  has  offered  you  a  wonderful  chance, 
one  of  the  chances  that  only  come  once  or  twice  in 
life,  sometimes  not  even  that — '  He  hesitated,  and 
then  went  on: 

"  But  perhaps — shall  I  say  certainly,  you  can't  know 
what  Courteis  and  his  school  are  like — they  will  be 
strange  company  for  you.  Shall  I  explain?  I  take  it 
that  you  have  no  one  to  advise  you  about  such  things." 

"  I  have  no  one  whose  advice  I  respect  to  advise 
me ;  plenty  of  people  whose  advice  I  despise." 

"  Exactly.  Therefore,  I  am  going  to  speak.  You 
must  take  this  chance.  It  means  failure  to  hold  back 
from  the  leaps  that  come  to  us  in  life.  But  can  you 
take  care  of  yourself  ?  " 

"  How  ?  "  Miriam  asked. 

"  I  mean  this  way :  you  are  young,  and,  pardon 
me,  for  you  acknowledge  it  yourself,  ignorant  of  the 
world,  and  very  clever,  very  unlike  your  age  and  the 
people  you  have  lived  among.  If  you  begin  to  work 
for  Courteis  you  will  come  under  his  influence,  and 
he  will  try  to  get  you  to  write  like  the  men  of  his 
school.  You  don't  know  them,  or  their  clever,  detest- 

62 


TO     THE     STARS 

able  gospel.  Quite  different  from  the  gospels  you  have 
been  trained  in,  and  therefore  irresistibly  attractive, 
probably.  How  will  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Miriam  slowly.  Gore  noticed  in 
all  that  she  said  a  tendency  to  weigh  the  subject  in 
hand.  Most  young  women  would  have  hazarded  a 
conjecture  at  that  moment ;  this  girl  merely  said,  "  I 
wonder,"  and  thought  about  it. 

"  When  I  get  home,"  Gore  proceeded,  "  I'll  send 
you  some  back  numbers  of  The  Advance  Guard  to  read. 
They  are  full  of  clever  writing  and  clever  ideas.  I 
should  like  you  to  try  to  grasp  the  spirit  of  the  paper 
— its  intention — the  sort  of  lines  it  goes  on." 

"  I  shall  try,"  said  Miriam. 

"  There  will  be  a  great  deal  in  it  you  won't  quite 
understand,  I  fancy — a  lot  that  will  shock  you;  a  lot 
you  will  admire.  I  shall  be  curious  to  hear  how  it 
strikes  you.  Will  you  let  me  know?  Don't  think  I 
am  trying  to  discourage  you — I  am  so  glad  for  you." 

He  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her,  half  in 
congratulation,  half  (she  felt)  to  put  an  end  to  the 
interview.  She  rose,  and  stood  there  silent  for  a  mo- 
ment before  she  turned  to  go. 

"  There's  your  ladder  to  the  stars  that  we  spoke  of. 
I  told  you  there  was  none  that  would  ever  reach  them ; 
but  you  may  be  always  climbing  up,"  said  Gore,  as 
they  shook  hands. 

"  I  feel  afraid,  after  what  you  have  told  me  about 
Mr.  Courteis,"  she  said. 

"  Afraid  ?  Do  you  remember,  "  O  Soul,  never  strike 
sail  to  a  fear '  ?  That  precept  carries  one  far !  " 

"  Oh,  who  said  that  ?  "  Miriam  cried,  her  eyes  filled 
63 


THE     LADDER 

with  sudden  tears — tears  of  delight  that  anyone  should 
have  said  just  what  she  wanted. 

"  Emerson  said  it,  and  you  must  practice  it.  Life 
is  nothing  without  its  risks.  This  is  a  big  one  for  you, 
so  you  are  bound  to  take  it." 

"  I  do  fear ;  but  perhaps  I  shall  not  strike  sail,"  said 
Miriam.  She  glanced  fearfully  at  the  clock,  afraid 
to  think  how  long  she  had  been  there. 

"  I  must  go.  My  mother  will  be  wondering  where 
I  am.  Good-by,  sir — Mr.  Gore." 

"  Good-by,  and  good  success  to  you.  I  shall  not 
forget  the  books,"  he  said.  "  But  I  must  come  back 
to  the  park  also;  see,  we  can  come  out  through  the 
window;  it  saves  time." 

Miriam  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  would  not  need 
to  run  the  gantlet  of  footmanly  criticism  again. 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   X 

As  Miriam  came  out  again  into  the  sunshine,  it 
seemed  to  her  that  she  came  out  into  quite  another 
world.  Life  had  suddenly  put  on  a  new  aspect  for  her. 
She  had  always  been  a  close  observer,  but  now  there 
was  some  object  in  her  observation ;  it  was  to  be  part 
of  her  business  now ;  she  could  not  observe  too  much. 

A  little  group  of  Pillars  stood  together  under  one 
of  the  elm  trees,  and,  as  they  caught  sight  of  their 
cousin,  they  opened  out  and  then  gathered  in  round 
her,  all  exclaiming  in  different  tones  on  the  same 
subject : 

"  My  goodness,  Miriam !  Where  have  you  been  all 
this  time?" 

"  What  can  you  have  been  about?  " 

"  Were  you  in  the  house  ?  " 

Finally  Maggie  Broadman  for  the  whole  group : 

"  Who  was  that  gentleman  you  walked  across  the 
lawn  with?  Surely,  you  hadn't  the  presumption  to 
speak  to  him?  We  were  all  quite  annoyed,  and  we 
tried  to  keep  your  mother  from  noticing  it." 

"  That  was  Mr.  Gore ;  he  spoke  to  me,"  said  Miriam 
curtly.  It  seemed  sacrilege  to  her  to  mention  his  name 
before  her  cousins ;  but  it  could  not  be  avoided. 

"  The  well-known  Mr.  Gore  ?  You  don't  mean  it ! 
Why,  we  thought  that  stout  gentleman  with  the  white 

65 


THE     LADDER 

waistcoat  would  be  him ;  he  looks  far  more  important, 
somehow." 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  "  Matilda  questioned ; 
but  Maggie  broke  in: 

"  It's  much  more  important  to  know  what  you  said 
to  him.  I  hope  you  said  none  of  those  silly,  strange 
things  you  sometimes  come  out  with  ?  " 

But  Miriam  could  not  be  drawn  into  any  details  of 
her  talk  with  Mr.  Gore.  She  turned  away  to  where 
the  children  were  playing,  and  left  her  cousins  to  con- 
jecture what  they  pleased. 

"  She's  quite  set  up  with  all  this  notice,"  said  one 
to  the  other. 

Sports  for  the  youth  of  the  village  had  been  in- 
stituted, and  Miriam  stood  and  watched  the  hot,  over- 
excited lads  as  they  gathered  in  a  group,  preparatory 
to  being  started  by  Sir  Samuel.  Her  quick  eye  ob- 
served that  what  was  such  an  exciting  event  for  the 
boys  was  an  intense  boredom  to  their  entertainer.  Sir 
Samuel  was  visibly  trying  to  assume  an  interest  in 
the  sports,  which  it  was  impossible  that  he  felt. 

"  Come  on,  lads !  Stop  a  moment — we  must  start 
fair !  I  back  Hindcup !  One,  two,  three — off !  "  he 
shouted  with  an  assumption  of  eagerness  that  Miriam 
took  in  perfectly.  She  found  herself  imagining  the 
relief  of  Sir  Samuel  and  his  wife  when  that  day's 
geniality  was  over.  After  her  late  sight  of  the  library, 
she  could  form  a  mental  picture  so  vivid  that  she 
could  have  sworn  to  having  really  seen  it.  Sir  Samuel 
would  fling  himself  down  into  one  of  those  beautiful 
leather-covered  chairs  and  laugh  over  it  all.  Mr.  Gore 
would  be  there  also,  and — but  here  Miriam  checked 

66 


TO     THE     STARS 

herself.  She  felt  sure  that  whatever  Mr.  Gore  said 
about  the  events  of  the  day  and  the  guests  he  had 
helped  to  entertain,  he  would  not  laugh  at  them. 

"  I  think  he  would  think  it  rather  piteous,"  she 
thought. 

The  races  were  concluded,  the  prizes  given,  the 
speeches  made,  and  at  last  the  evening  came.  Mr. 
Hobbes  had  with  difficulty  collected  the  members  of 
his  choir,  and  packed  them  into  the  char-a-bancs.  Soon 
would  the  day  be  over.  Miriam  shrank  back  into  the 
corner  of  the  carriage  and  thought  over  all  it  had 
meant  to  her.  But  her  thoughts  were  interrupted  by 
Mr.  Hobbes 's  suggestion  of  some  music  to  cheer  the 
homeward  way. 

"  Let  us  have  '  Safe  in  the  Arms,'  "  he  said.  "  You, 
Matilda  Pillar,  with  your  fine  voice  shall. lead." 

So  Matilda,  in  her  shrill,  ill-modulated  voice,  started 
the  swinging  melody.  It  was  quickly  taken  up,  and 
soon  they  were  all  singing  away  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  The  vulgar,  sensual  melody  delighted  them. 
Dr.  Pratt  sat  closer  to  Emmie  Pillar  in  the  dusk,  and 
gave  her  hand  a  slight  pressure;  she  did  not  seem  to 
mind  this,  nor  the  fact  that  the  rest  of  the  party  must 
have  noticed  the  action. 

"  What  a  sweet,  tender  hymn  it  is,  Mr.  Hobbes," 
said  Mrs.  Sadler,  wiping  her  eyes. 

"  A  precious  hymn — precious,"  he  answered ;  "  let 
us  have  the  last  verse  once  again,  Matilda."  And 
Matilda,  nothing  loath,  sang  the  verse  over  again  with 
great  emphasis. 

Miriam  did  not  join  in  the  singing,  but  she  sat 
there,  in  the  corner,  watching  them  all  like  a  lynx. 

67 


THE     LADDER 

She  thought  it  was  rather  disgusting  of  Emmie  and 
Dr.  Pratt  to  go  on  that  way. 

"  You  are  taking  no  part  in  the  singing,  Miriam," 
said  Mr.  Hobbes,  leaning  across  the  carriage  to  speak 
to  her. 

"  No,"  she  answered  bluntly,  and  all  looked  at  her. 

"  It  is  a  pity  not  to  join  in,"  he  persisted,  and 
Miriam,  goaded  by  his  persistency,  made  retort: 

"  I  don't,  Mr.  Hobbes,  because  I  dislike  the  hymn." 

"  Tut,  tut,  tut ! "  went  Mr.  Hobbes,  but  he  had  the 
sense  not  to  press  the  subject,  and  contented  himself 
with  asking  Matilda  to  start  "  The  Sweet  By  and  By  " 
instead.  To  this  luscious  tune  they  swung  homeward ; 
the  very  driver,  as  he  whipped  up  his  jaded  old  screws, 
roared  away  about  the  "  sweet  by  and  by." 

Miriam  sat  apart  and  wondered  at  it  all — all  the 
men  and  women  beside  her,  at  herself,  at  this  strange 
world. 

Far  away,  through  the  dark  woods,  she  saw  the 
Manor  lights  shine  out,  and  a  wave  of  bitterness  swept 
over  her : 

"  Oh,  if  I  were  there — there  and  happy,  not  here  and 
disgusted !  "  she  thought.  What  she  longed  for  was 
not  the  beautiful  house  and  all  its  luxuries;  but  the 
greatest,  most  unattainable  luxury  in  the  world — the 
interchange  of  ideas. 

There  rang  in  her  ears  words  that  from  childhood 
had  seemed  to  her  the  most  poignant  in  the  whole 
Bible :  "  Ye  shall  see  Abraham  and  Isaac  and  Jacob 
in  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  ye  yourselves  cast  out." 

"That's  it,"  she  thought;  "'ye  yourselves  cast 
out.' " 

68 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XI 

MIRIAM  went  the  next  day  to  see  Miss  Foxe;  she 
wished  to  tell  her  all  the  happenings  of  the  fete  day. 
But  before  she  did  this  she  found  that  Miss  Foxe  had 
a  good  deal  to  say  about  her  nephew. 

"  Max — poor  Max,  has  left  me  this  morning,"  she 
said. 

"  Why  do  you  call  him  '  poor  '  ?  "  Miriam  asked. 

"  Because  he  is  unhappy,  unhappy  in  his  matrimo- 
nial ventures.  '  A  hot  love  cooling  '  is  one  of  the  sad- 
dest sights  of  this  world.  When  I  recall  the  ardors 
of  his  courtship,  I  tremble  for  human  frailty,  and  won- 
der if  love  ever  does  endure." 

Miriam  was  very  much  interested.  She  somehow 
had  never  thought  of  Courteis  as  a  married  man,  or 
perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  she  had  never 
thought  whether  he  was  married  or  not. 

"  Does  he  not  care  for  his  wife  ?  "  she  asked. 

Miss  Foxe  smiled. 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  they  live  on  these  terms  of  icy  in- 
difference that  are  so  much  worse  than  good,  warm 
dislike — so  much  worse  for  the  character.  It  has 
turned  all  the  good  in  poor  Max  into  bad.  He  has 
no  reserves  with  me,  I  hear  a  great  deal  from  him. 
Let  me  give  you  a  piece  of  advice,  Miriam:  watch 
men  and  women  in  their  relation  to  each  other,  if  you 
wish  to  see  the  strangest  freaks  of  human  nature. 

69 


THE     LADDER 

Men  and  women  view  the  world  according  as  their 
love  affairs  have  been  happy  or  unhappy.  It's  a  great 
mistake,  of  course,  being  so  personal,  but  apparently 
they  can't  avoid  it.  There  is  no  optimist  so  blatant 
as  your  happily,  successfully  married  man  or  woman ; 
they  just  can't  be  persuaded  that  everything  is  not 
all  right." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Miriam.    "  I've  noticed  that." 

"  And  conversely,"  Miss  Foxe  pursued,  in  a  musing 
tone,  "  when  a  man  has  had  his  heart  wounded,  and  all 
his  affections  thwarted,  it  inevitably  coarsens  or  em- 
bitters him ;  generally  the  first.  They  don't  believe  in 
the  reality  of  love.  They  think  it  all  passion — a  phase 
of  youth  that  passes ;  and  you  may  speak  to  them  from 
June  to  January,  you  will  never  convince  them  that 
it  is  not  so.  Try,  my  dear,  not  to  take  these  hope- 
lessly individual  views  when  your  time  comes." 

"  You  have  just  said  that  it  can't  be  avoided," 
laughed  Miriam. 

"  Well,  so  it  seems ;  anyhow,  Max  Courteis  cannot 
avoid  it — clever  as  he  is.  His  whole  philosophy  of 
life  is  tinged  by  his  own  experience.  He  has  collected 
a  school  of  writers  round  him  who  think  like  him.  I've 
sometimes  asked  him  unkindly  if  they  are  all  unhappily 
married,  and  what  do  you  think  he  replied  ? " 

"What?"  Miriam  asked  in  amusement. 

" '  No  one  is  ever  anything  else,  and  if  they  think 
they  are,  it's  only  a  fleeting  illusion  of  sensual  grati- 
fication ! '  That's  his  pose,  you  see ;  the  soul  left  very 
much  out  of  things,  indeed;  so  make  the  best  of  this 
world  while  you  may." 

"  Did  Mr.  Courteis  tell  you  what  he  said  to  me  ?  " 
70 


TO     THE     STARS 

Miriam  asked — the  question  that  had  been  burning  her 
lips  all  this  time.  She  was  as  shy  and  yet  as  anxious  to 
speak  of  this  as  a  young  mother  of  her  coming  child. 

"  Yes,  he  told  me ;  but  I  had  told  him  to  say  it  to 
you,  so  it  was  no  news  to  me.  He  knows  nothing 
about  you  and  your  abilities ;  he  took  them  at  my  valu- 
ation, and  after  seeing  you.  What  are  you  going 
to  do?" 

"  I  am  going  to  think  and  think  for  a  long  time,  and 
study ;  and  then  when  I  have  arranged  my  ideas  a  lit- 
tle, try  to  write." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  study  first  ?  "  asked 
the  old  lady. 

"  The  books  Mr.  Gore  sends  me,  and  may  I  come 
here?  I  am  going  to  speak  to  mother  about  it  when 
I  go  home.  There  is  no  quiet  in  our  house  to  read  or 
write.  Whenever  I  sit  down  to  do  either,  mother 
comes  in  and  interrupts  me,  or  the  servant  wants  me  to 
show  her  about  something,  or  one  of  my  cousins  looks 
in ;  it's  no  use  at  all.  I  must  come  here  to  read." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Miss  Foxe.  "  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  have  you  here;  no  one  shall  disturb  you.  I  shall 
think  about  you  this  evening  when  you  break  it  to  your 
mother." 

"  It  will  be  very  disagreeable  to  do." 

"  Very ;  but  the  wars  of  independence  have  always 
been  the  most  stirring  ones  in  history,  and  generally 
the  most  successful.  I've  always  thought  that  God 
prospered  them." 

Miss  Foxe  very  seldom  made  an  allusion  of  this 
kind  in  her  talk,  and  Miriam  was  surprised  by  it.  She 
thought  about  it  as  she  walked  back  to  Hindcup,  and 

71 


THE     LADDER 

wondered  if  what  Miss  Foxe  had  said  was  true. 
Would  God,  indeed,  fight  this  battle  with  her?  But 
no,  she  concluded,  she  had  no  right  to  claim  the  help 
of  the  Most  High  in  her  difficulties,  if  she  did  not  ask 
it  when  things  went  well  with  her.  "  I  must  fight  my 
own  battles,"  she  thought.  The  wholly  unintelligent 
creed  taught  her  in  childhood  had  long  ago  been  re- 
jected by  her  strong  young  intellect,  and  as  yet  no 
other  had  taken  its  place  with  any  definiteness.  Some- 
times, unknown  to  her  mother,  Miriam  would  slip  into 
the  parish  church  of  Hindcup.  There,  where  the  faith 
and  hope  of  centuries  had  grown,  she  felt  herself 
nearer  God ;  but  no  Divine  Friend  walked  beside  her 
through  the  every-day  streets. 

Mrs.  Sadler  and  Mrs.  Hobbes  were  standing  to- 
gether in  closest  converse  at  the  gate  when  Miriam 
approached.  They  parted  at  sight  of  her,  and  Mrs. 
Hobbes  hurried  off  down  the  street.  Mrs.  Sadler 
waited  to  meet  her  daughter,  and  they  walked  to- 
gether up  the  little  flower-bordered  path  that  led  from 
the  gate  to  the  door. 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Hobbes  is  that  put  out  about  her  Su- 
sannah," the  good  woman  began ;  "  they've  had  a  dif- 
ference over  some  cold  meat.  It  seems  Mrs.  Hobbes 
had  laid  it  by  for  Mr.  Hobbes's  supper  to-night,  and 
Susannah  had  her  young  man  in  to  supper  last  night 
and  gave  it  to  him ;  and  then  when  Mrs.  Hobbes  asked, 
'  Where  was  the  cold  meat  ? '  Susannah  spoke  up  to 
her  in  the  rudest  way.  I'm  sure  these  girls  are  more 
worry  than  they're  worth  any  day." 

Mrs.  Sadler  became  aware  suddenly  that  her  daugh- 
ter was  paying  very  scant  attention  to  this  thrilling 

72 


TO     THE     STARS 

history  of  Susannah  and  the  cold  meat;  she  stopped 
her  recounting  in  a  grieved  way,  saying : 

"  But  I  always  forget  you  don't  take  much  interest 
in  Mrs.  Hobbes's  troubles." 

Miriam  was  stricken  with  shame;  how  horrible  it 
was  to  be  out  of  touch  with  her  own  home.  She  tried 
to  atone  for  it  by  an  elaborately  feigned  interest ;  but 
simple  people  like  Mrs.  Sadler  are  often  less  easily 
mollified  than  more  subtle  personalities;  she  would 
have  none  of  this  affected  interest. 

"  No,  no,  my  dear,  I  know  you  take  no  real  interest 
in  these  things,  so  it's  little  use  pretending  to."  The 
girl  did  not  try  to  defend  herself.  She  sat  down 
and  decided  to  speak  at  once  about  her  proposed 
studies. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  about 
something." 

"  Well,  I  hope  it  is  that  you've  changed  your  mind 
and  decided  to  take  that  class  in  the  Sunday  school, 
after  all,"  said  Mrs.  Sadler.  Poor  woman !  She  knew 
perfectly  well,  somewhere  deep  down  in  her  heart, 
that  it  was  no  such  happy  decision  that  her  daughter 
wished  to  announce,  but  she  kept  desperately  hoping 
against  this  conviction. 

"  No,  indeed !  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  that  I 
mean  to  separate  myself  more  from  this  sort  of  thing 
— from  Sunday  schools  and  Young  People's  Institutes, 
and  so  on,  for  I  have  decided  to  devote  my  life  to 
study  just  now." 

Mrs.  Sadler  repeated  the  words  vacantly.  "  '  To  de- 
vote your  life  to  study ! '  Dear,  dear !  But,  Miriam, 
what  in  all  the  world  will  you  study  ?  " 

73 


THE     LADDER 

"  I  wish  to  study  history,  first ;  and  then  literature 
and  philosophy,  perhaps." 

"  Philosophy ! "  echoed  Mrs.  Sadler.  The  word 
bore  only  a  dangerous  significance  to  her  ears. 

"  I  am  going  to  begin  by  studying  for  three  hours 
each  day,  from  eleven  till  two,"  Miriam  pursued ;  but 
here  her  mother  broke  in  desperately: 

"  Eleven  to  two !  the  busiest  hours  in  the  day !  And 
who  is  to  dust  this  parlor,  and  help  cook  dinner  ?  "  she 
cried  in  indignation. 

"  I  shall  dust  the  parlor  before  eleven,"  said  Miriam 
gravely ;  "  and  Joan  must  just  manage  to  cook  by  her- 
self." 

"  But  Joan  is  no  cook ;  you  know  for  yourself  she 
burned  the  joint  to  a  cinder  yesterday." 

"  Well,  then,  we  must  try  to  find  some  one  who  can 
cook ;  for  I  am  not  going  to  do  it." 

"  But  home  is  your  first  duty,  surely  ?  "  argued  Mrs. 
Sadler. 

"  If  there  were  no  one  else  to  do  the  things  that  need 
to  be  done;  but,  mother,  we  can  pay  a  servant  to  do 
them,  and  I  am  not  going  to  spend  my  life  cooking." 

"  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  how  wrong  and  foolish," 
sobbed  Mrs.  Sadler.  "  And  if  it  had  been  anything 
but  study;  if  it  had  been  you  were  getting  married, 
now,  like  your  cousins  ;  but  study!  what  good  will  study 
do  you  ?  " 

"  I  believe  if  I  were  marrying  the  stupidest  man  in 
England  you  would  make  no  difficulty  about  sparing 
me,"  said  her  daughter  bitterly. 

"  No,  indeed ;  'tis  the  way  of  all  flesh,  is  marriage ; 
but  study !  " 

74 


TO     THE     STARS 

Miriam  laughed  outright. 

"  Not  of  all  flesh,  mother ;  but  perhaps  you  won't 
take  so  unkindly  to  my  studies  when  you  see  that  they 
do  me  no  harm.  I  am  going  to  study  at  Miss  Foxe's 
house,  because  it  is  quieter.  I  have  arranged  it  all 
with  her." 

"  I  should  never  have  had  that  friendship  with  Miss 
Foxe,"  cried  poor  Mrs.  Sadler.  "  She's  a  strange,  god- 
less woman,  by  all  accounts.  I've  been  a  foolish 
mother,  and  now  I  have  my  punishment."  She  wiped 
her  eyes  and  gave  a  sigh  of  very  real  distress. 

Miriam  knew  that  it  was  useless  to  try  to  convince 
her  mother  on  any  point.  The  reasoning  faculty, 
which  was  her  own  strongest  characteristic,  had  been 
strangely  left  out  of  Mrs.  Sadler's  composition. 

"  I'll  get  Mr.  Hobbes  to  speak  to  you,"  she  said. 
"  Surely  you  will  believe  what  he  says  ?  " 

"  No,  mother.  Mr.  Hobbes  does  not  see  things  as  I 
see  them.  You  must  just  let  me  take  my  own  way 
about  this.  I  am  old  enough  now  to  choose  what  I 
wish  to  do  with  my  life,  and  I  am  going  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  Miriam,  Miriam,  that's  no  way  for  a  young 
person  to  speak !  "  cried  the  mother. 

Miriam,  seeing  the  vanity  of  further  argument, 
turned  away,  and  left  the  room. 


75 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XII 

THAT  evening,  in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room, 
by  the  light  of  one  candle,  and  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, Miriam  wrote  the  following  note: 

DEAR  SIR: 

The  conversation  you  had  with  me  has  given  me  many  new 
ideas,  which  I  wish  to  follow  out  if  possible.     Might  I  ask  you 
to  send  me  specially  some  histories  of  Democracy,  and  essays  on 
the  same  subject  to  study?    Do  you  not  think  it  will  be  better 
for  me  to  devote  myself  to  one  subject  at  a  time,  in  case  I  should 
be  in  danger  of  being  overwhelmed  by  too  many  ideas? 
With  apologies  for  addressing  you, 
I  am, 

Yours  truly, 

MIRIAM  SADLER. 

She  wrote  this  letter  three  times  over,  and  finally, 
despairing  of  making  any  improvement  in  its  style, 
put  it  up  and  addressed  it  to  Mr.  Gore  at  the  Manor. 
After  the  letter  was  posted,  Miriam  was,  of  course,  as- 
sailed by  torments  of  shame — how  futile,  how  silly  her 
suggestion  had  been!  What  a  fool  Mr.  Gore  would 
think  her!  She  lay  awake  half  the  night  worrying 
over  what  she  had  done,  and  terrified  by  her  own 
audacity. 

The  subject  which  she  had  vaguely  named  "  De- 
mocracy "  swam  before  her  brain  continually.  She 

76 


TO     THE     STARS 

meant  by  Democracy  far  more  than  the  bare  word  im- 
plied— "  A  form  of  government  in  which  the  supreme 
power  is  vested  in  the  people  collectively,"  the  dic- 
tionary defined  the  word;  but  to  Miriam  it  meant 
much  more  than  this.  She  wanted  histories  of  libera- 
tions which,  alas,  have  not  yet  been  wrought — which 
probably  never  can  be  wrought.  For  though  excep- 
tional individuals  rise  above  the  restrictions  of  class, 
such  exceptions  only  prove  the  rule  that  the  majority 
must  remain  walled  in  and  fettered  by  laws  which  they 
have  not  sufficient  force  to  nullify.  All  this  seemed 
unjust  to  the  girl ;  she  began  to  try  to  arrange  her  ideas 
on  the  subject,  and,  as  untrained  thinkers  will,  repeated 
and  contradicted  herself  constantly.  At  last  she  tried 
to  write  down  these  chaotic  thoughts.  The  first  state- 
ments came  glibly  enough  to  her  pen,  and  she  read 
over  the  sentences  which  set  them  forth,  with  a  thrill 
of  pride.  But,  after  a  little  more  consideration,  Mir- 
iam began  to  wonder  if  there  was  not  another  side 
to  the  case.  This  led  to  writing  down  a  further  set 
of  statements  exactly  contrary  to  the  first.  Bewil- 
dered between  these  conflicting  views  of  the  same  sub- 
ject, she  sat  and  made  vacant  scribbles  with  her  pen 
across  the  large  sheet  of  grocer's  paper  on  which  she 
had  been  writing.  Then  she  had  a  sudden  illumination. 

"  This  is  the  process  I  wish  to  learn,"  she  cried. 
"  Between  the  two  sides  of  an  argument  truth  is  born ; 
this  is  how  thinking  is  done.  I  must  think  out  all  that 
can  be  said  on  both  sides  of  every  question,  and  then 
find  something  that  lies  between  them  both." 

It  was  a  laborious  process,  and  equally  laborious 
was  that  first "  Treatise  on  Democracy,"  which  Miriam 
6  77 


THE     LADDER 

produced  as  the  fruit  of  many  days  of  toil.  During 
the  production  of  this  effort,  she  was  deaf  and  blind 
to  the  outer  world ;  she  seemed  to  herself  to  be  walk- 
ing about  in  a  dream ;  she  was,  as  Maggie  Broadman 
put  it,  "  more  intolerable  than  usual,"  nor  could  any 
questioning  from  her  cousins  make  her  reveal  the  rea- 
son of  her  preoccupation. 

But  one  afternoon  there  came  a  letter  from  Miss 
Foxe,  inclosing  a  note  from  Alan  Gore.  It  had,  of 
course,  been  addressed  to  The  Old  House.  Miriam 
read  this  letter  in  such  a  hurry  that  she  scarcely  took 
in  its  simple  contents ;  then  she  reread  it,  experiencing 
a  slight  thrill  of  disappointment  because  it  was  so  un- 
remarkable. 

DEAR  Miss  SADLER: 

I  think  your  suggestion  excellent.  It  is  always  best  to  read 
about  what  interests  us  most.  I  have  sent  you  to-day  a  number 
of  books  on  Democracy,  and  shall  be  interested  to  hear  how  you 
get  on  with  them. 

Wishing  you  all  success  and  pleasure  in  the  work  you 
are  undertaking, 

Yours  truly, 

ALAN  GORE. 

Miriam  wasted  no  time  on  the  way  to  The  Old 
House  that  day.  There  she  found  the  box  of  books 
waiting,  sure  enough,  and  oh,  how  she  fell  upon  them ! 
Each  book  bore  the  owner's  name  on  the  title-page, 
and  this  invested  the  volumes  with  a  peculiar  charm 
in  her  eyes.  To  see  Miriam  read  a  book  was  like 
seeing  a  hungry  caterpillar  fasten  on  a  green  leaf. 
In  the  time  that  an  ordinary  person  would  take  to  read 
a  few  chapters,  she  had  read  the  book — rejecting  the 

78 


TO     THE     STARS 

unessential  bits  of  it,  and  sucking  up  the  gist  of  the 
work,  in  the  way  only  your  born  reader  can  do.  The 
great  pile  of  books  on  Democracy  would  have  dis- 
mayed most  people,  but  she  almost  kissed  them  in  her 
ecstasy  of  pleasure.  Day  by  day  the  pile  of  unread 
volumes  diminished,  and  the  pile  of  read  volumes  in- 
creased ;  and  in  the  same  way  every  day  added  to  the 
stores  of  information  that  she  acquired  about  her 
chosen  subject. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  Miriam  deliberately  tore  up 
the  laborious  "  Treatise  on  Democracy,"  which  had  so 
absorbed  and  pleased  her,  and  began  to  write  it  all 
over  again.  It  never  occurred  to  her  to  give  up  the 
attempt;  but  with  increased  knowledge  her  views  had 
undergone  further  change,  and  the  whole  treatise 
must  be  rewritten.  The  delicious  labor  of  this  second 
undertaking  was  considerably  more  arduous  than  the 
labor  of  the  first  attempt  had  been. 

She  worked  at  it  early  and  late ;  wrote  and  rewrote, 
till  Mrs.  Sadler,  examining  the  items  of  the  "  Store 
Book,"  exclaimed  fretfully  over  her  daughter's  reck- 
less expenditure  on  ink. 

"Ink  again,  Miriam,  sevenpence  for  ink!  as  if  the 
penny  bottles  weren't  good  enough;  who's  wanting 
blue-black  at  sevenpence  ?  " 

But  at  last  the  day  came  when  Miriam  felt  that  she 
had  written  her  last  word  on  Democracy.  She  took 
out  the  pile  of  manuscript  from  a  drawer  and  fingered 
it  lovingly.  The  treatise  had  been  written  out  on  coarse, 
yellowish  grocer's  paper ;  it  would  make  a  considerable 
parcel.  Miriam  found  a  bit  of  brown  paper  and  some 
string,  but  it  cost  her  a  pang  to  think  of  tying  up  the 

79 


THE     LADDER 

parcel;  she  felt  like  a  mother  putting  away  her  child 
into  its  coffin,  and  wanted  to  have  another  and  yet 
another  look  at  the  work  of  her  hands.  When  at  last 
she  had  finished  making  up  the  parcel,  and  had  ad- 
dressed it  to  Max  Courteis,  she  stood  holding  it  ir- 
resolutely for  a  moment.  She  must  take  leave  of  this, 
the  first  fruits  of  her  labor.  With  a  sudden  impulse, 
she  caught  up  the  parcel  to  her  lips  and  gave  the  im- 
passive brown  paper  surface  a  gentle  kiss. 

In  imagination  Miriam  followed  the  fortunes  of  her 
manuscript  from  the  time  it  left  her  hands  till  it 
reached  the  hands  of  Max  Courteis.  She  then  im- 
agined his  first  glance  over  it;  would  he  think  it 
wretchedly  bad,  or  wonderfully  good  ?  Sometimes  she 
fancied  the  one,  sometimes  the  other  verdict.  But  at 
any  rate  she  had  to  wait  some  time  for  it;  for  a  fort- 
night she  heard  nothing.  Then  at  last,  one  morning, 
as  Miriam  and  Mrs.  Sadler  were  at  breakfast,  the  little 
servant  girl  came  in  with  a  letter  between  her  finger 
and  thumb,  which  she  announced  was  for  Miss 
Sadler. 

Letters  were  not  very  frequent  events  in  this  quiet 
household,  and  Mrs.  Sadler  looked  up  in  mild  sur- 
prise at  the  announcement. 

"  It  is  about  something  I  have  been  writing,"  Mir- 
iam explained. 

"  Something  you  have  been  writing !  "  echoed  Mrs. 
Sadler.  She  laid  down  the  sugar  tongs  which  she  had 
just  lifted,  and  looked  earnestly  at  her  daughter,  with 
a  world  of  astonishment  in  her  stupid  face. 

"  Yes ;  nothing  important,"  said  Miriam.  She  laid 
the  letter  down  unopened,  and  pretended  to  eat  her 

80 


TO     THE     STARS 

breakfast ;  but  even  Mrs.  Sadler  saw  the  absurdity  of 
this  pretense. 

"  Surely,  you're  going  to  read  it,  now  it's  there," 
she  asked. 

"  Not  just  now,  mother ;  I  would  rather  have  my 
breakfast,"  said  Miriam.  She  could  not  bear  to  open 
the  letter  there  and  then,  for  if  it  contained  bad  news, 
how  could  she  endure  the  pain  of  it  before  her  mother  ? 
if  good  news,  surely  the  first  joy  would  be  better  tasted 
in  solitude.  But  Mrs.  Sadler  was  not  at  all  pleased. 

"Well,  well,"  she  muttered.  "What  with  your 
studies  in  other  people's  houses,  and  your  letters  from 
no  one  knows  who,  that  you  won't  read  before  your 
own  mother,  I  don't  know  what's  to  become  of  you, 
I'm  sure !  " 

There  was  no  reply  possible  to  this  attack.  So 
Miriam  was  silent  and  the  meal  ended  uncomfortably. 
She  then  ran  upstairs  to  her  own  room,  locked  the 
door,  and  sat  down  to  read.  The  very  handwriting  of 
the  address  was  interesting  to  her,  the  sprawling  illegi- 
ble characters  had  the  curious  stamp  of  education  upon 
them,  in  spite  of  their  illegibility.  At  first  she  found 
it  difficult  to  make  out  the  contents  of  the  letter,  for 
Courteis  did  not  punctuate  with  anything  save  a  series 
of  dashes.  But  at  last  she  puzzled  it  out: 

The  stuff,  of  course,  is  as  good  as  possible;  but  O  Lord!  why 
choose  to  write  a  treatise  on  Democracy  at  this  time  of  day? 
Hasn't  the  world  heard  as  much  about  it  as  it  wants  to  know? 
I  can't  publish  it,  because  no  one  would  read  it — not  if  it  were 
a  hitherto  unpublished  Baconian  Essay.  Turn  your  excellent 
ideas  into  lighter  channels — no,  lighter  channels  would  never  suit 
your  peculiar  gifts.  I  won't  dictate.  Try  again.  You  must 

81 


THE     LADDER 

make  the  world  listen  to  your  own  kind  of  talking — somehow. 
You  are  far  too  logical  for  a  woman;  but  it  is  a  great  gift.  I  dote 
on  your  "  Treatise  on  Democracy  "  myself;  it's  only  my  readers 
that  I  don't  sufficiently  respect  to  try  them  with  it.  Where  did  you 
get  all  these  ideas,  and  where  did  you  learn  to  arrange  them  so 
formidably? 

But  still  the  work  is  useless  to  me — impossible;  and  I  am 
sorry,  but  hope  to  have  more  and  better  work  from  you  soon. 
Yours  faithfully, 

MAX  COURTEIS. 

The  manuscript  was  returned.  Miriam  sat  down  to 
think  over  the  letter  and  decided  that  she  was  at  once 
disappointed  and  pleased  by  it.  She  read  it  over  and 
over  and  tried  to  suck  all  the  sweetness  possible  from 
it,  but  the  hard  fact  remained,  that  the  manuscript  had 
been  sent  back,  "  and  all  my  work  has  been  wasted," 
she  thought.  Then  her  better  judgment  reasserted 
itself,  and  she  confessed  that  the  toil  had  been  pleasure, 
and  must  bring  gain  in  the  end. 

"  I  wonder  if  Mr.  Gore  would  read  it  if  I  sent  it 
to  him  ?  "  she  thought ;  "  it  would  show  him  better 
than  anything  else  how  carefully  I  have  read  his 
books."  After  all,  Max  Courteis  was  an  excellent 
critic,  and  did  he  not  say  that  he  "  doted  "  on  the  poor, 
returned  "  Treatise  "  ?  It  could  not  be  altogether  con- 
temptible. 

So  once  more  it  was  folded  up  and  dispatched — this 
time  to  Mr.  Gore — along  with  a  stiff  little  note  to  tell 
him  what  Courteis  had  written  about  it. 

Miriam  was  far  more  excited  by  this  sending  off  than 
she  had  been  by  the  other.  It  mattered  more  to  her 
that  Alan  Gore  should  think  well  of  her  work  than  if 

82 


TO     THE     STARS 

a  dozen  editors  had  praised  it.  She  regarded  him 
much  as  we  poor  earth  dwellers  regard  some  splendid 
planet  blazing  down  from  the  utmost  heavens  upon  our 
dark  world. 

In  reality,  it  was  far  more  important  that  she  should 
gain  approval  from  Courteis,  but  it  did  not  seem  so 
to  her.  As  day  after  day  passed,  she  became  more  and 
more  impatient.  She  watched  the  postman  as  he  came 
up  the  street,  banging  carelessly  at  the  doors  and  hand- 
ing letters  into  other  houses — he  always  passed  her 
door. 

"  Mr.  Gore  has  thought  my  Treatise  absurd,  and  has 
decided  not  to  take  any  notice  of  it,"  she  thought  dis- 
consolately. And  then  one  afternoon  something  hap- 
pened all  at  once ;  something  that  was  to  mean  all  the 
world  to  her. 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XIII 

IT  was  Joan's  "  day  out,"  so  Miriam  had  been  busy. 
She  had  just  removed  the  tea  things  from  the  parlor, 
and  Mrs.  Sadler  was  beginning  to  wonder  if  it  wasn't 
nearly  time  for  her  to  put  on  her  bonnet,  as  she  was 
going  out  to  the  prayer  meeting,  when  she  saw  a  car- 
riage stop  at  the  gate,  and  an  unknown  lady  come  up 
to  the  door.  She  looked  about  her  in  an  inquiring, 
perplexed  way,  and  came  hesitatingly  up  the  path,  as 
if  not  certain  whether  she  had  come  to  the  right  house. 

Miriam  went  to  the  door,  which  stood  open,  and 
confronted  the  unknown  visitor. 

"  Does  Miss  Sadler  live  here  ?  There  seems  to  be 
some  mistake  about  her  address,"  the  stranger  asked. 

"  I  am  Miss  Sadler,"  said  Miriam,  wondering  very 
much,  indeed,  who  this  might  be. 

"  Then  I  must  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mr.  Gore's 
sister ;  he  sent  me  to  see  you." 

She  hesitated,  and  looked  at  the  girl  curiously. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  ? "  said  Miriam,  her  heart 
beating  fast  with  pleasure;  but  what  to  say  was  the 
question.  An  overpowering  shyness  possessed  her. 
She  ushered  her  visitor  into  the  parlor  and  drew  for- 
ward a  chair  for  her.  Mrs.  Sadler  rose  and  courtesied 
to  the  newcomer,  flurried  and  surprised. 

"  This  is  my  mother,"  Miriam  explained ;  "  and 
mother,  this  is  Miss  Gore." 

"J'm  sure  you're  very  kind,  ma'am,"  Mrs.  Sadler 


TO     THE     STARS 

began,  though  it  was  hard  to  say  what  she  meant  to 
thank  Miss  Gore  for  as  yet.  Miriam,  in  the  meantime, 
was  realizing  that  her  mother  was  sure  to  find  out 
about  the  books  Mr.  Gore  had  sent,  and  what  would 
she  say? 

Miss  Gore  turned  to  Mrs.  Sadler  and  explained  the 
reason  of  her  visit. 

"  My  brother  asked  me  to  come  and  see  your  daugh- 
ter," she  began,  "  because  he  has  been  so  much  struck 
by  the  article  she  has  written  on  Democracy,  and  he 
wished  me  to  make  her  acquaintance.  I  am  staying 
at  Hindcup  Manor." 

Mrs.  Sadler  was  entirely  bewildered  by  this  explana- 
tion. In  the  first  place,  who  was  the  lady ;  then,  who 
was  the  lady's  brother;  then,  how  had  he  heard  about 
anything  that  her  daughter  chose  to  write,  and  what 
was  this  about  an  article  on  Democracy?  Then  she 
hastily  gathered  up  the  fragments  of  memory,  remem- 
bering something  Maggie  Broadman  had  told  her 
about  Mr.  Gore  and  Miriam  and  books ;  she  had  hoped 
that  it  was  all  nonsense,  as  no  more  had  been  heard 
about  it ;  but  this  must  be  the  same  thing  turning  up 
again. 

"I'm  sure  I  scarcely  know  what  to  say,"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  I  suppose  Miriam's  been  writing  some- 
thing, though  I  know  nothing  about  it,  and  really  I'm 
often  anxious  over  these  '  studies  '  she  talks  about.  I 
don't  know  what  she  studies,  I'm  sure;  but  I  think 
she  might  well  be  better  employed." 

This  speech  illuminated  the  whole  situation  to  Delia 
Gore.  She  glanced  from  the  mother  to  the  daughter. 
Mrs.  Sadler  spoke  hurriedly,  in  a  sort  of  nervous  vex- 

85 


THE     LADDER 

ation ;  Miriam  sat  and  listened  impassively,  looking  at 
her  mother  in  a  curiously  impersonal  way,  as  if  she 
were  saying,  "  She  may  say  any  folly  she  chooses ;  I 
am  not  responsible  for  it." 

"  Oh,  you  must  not  be  anxious  about  your  daugh- 
ter's studies,"  Delia  exclaimed,  anxious  to  be  a  peace- 
maker. "  My  brother  sent  her  only  the  best  known 
books  on  the  subject,  books  that  could  do  no  one  any 
harm — only  good." 

There  was  an  ominous  silence. 

"  Miriam  never  told  me  about  no  books,"  said  Mrs. 
Sadler,  very  sorrowfully  and  ungrammatically.  When- 
ever she  was  agitated,  Mrs.  Sadler  had  a  trick  of 
doubling  the  negative — a  trick  she  had  conquered  in 
calmer  moments.  Delia  looked  beseechingly  at  Miriam 
— she  must  explain  the  situation. 

"  My  mother  thinks  study  will  '  unsettle  '  me,  Miss 
Gore,"  Miriam  said,  "  and  keep  me  from  leading  what 
she  thinks  is  a  useful  life ;  so  I  never  told  her  that  Mr. 
Gore  had  sent  me  books  to  study.  I  asked  him  to 
send  them  to  the  house  of  a  friend.  That  is  how  it 
was." 

"  Oh,  that's  what  it  was,"  said  Mrs.  Sadler.  "  That's 
what  all  the  study  at  Miss  Foxe's  has  been ! " 

Delia  Gore  hastened  to  relieve  the  situation  as  well 
as  she  could. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Sadler,  your  daughter  has  made  the 
cleverest  use  out  of  all  her  reading,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
sure  you  would  be  pleased  if  you  knew  how  much  we 
admire  her  article  on  Democracy;  it  is  so  new — full 
of  all  manner  of  fresh  views  of  such  a  well-worn 
subject." 

86 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  What  good  is  it  ever  to  do  anyone  ?  "  Mrs.  Sadler 
inquired,  a  question  which  Miss  Gore  did  not  go  into, 
but  opened  fresh  ground  by  her  next  remark. 

"  We  wonder  if  you  will  allow  your  daughter  to 
come  and  pay  us  a  visit  in  London,"  she  said.  "  It 
would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  us." 

"  Miriam  visit  you  in  London !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Sad- 
ler ;  "  but  Miriam's  not  a  lady,"  she  added  in  a  flat 
way. 

Delia  Gore  laid  her  hand  for  just  a  moment  on  the 
girl's  knee;  the  touch  seemed  to  convey  a  world  of 
understanding.  Then  she  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Sadler. 

"  Oh,  please  don't  bring  in  these  ideas  at  all,"  she 
said.  "  I  want  your  daughter  to  come  and  stay  with 
me,  if  she  will,  that  is  all." 

This  subversive  woman  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Sad- 
ler altogether.  She  rose,  as  she  would  have  expressed 
it,  "  all  in  a  flurry." 

"  I'm  sure,  ma'am,  I  don't  understand  about  Mir- 
iam. I  don't  understand  the  girl  herself,  though 
she's  my  own  child;  or  what  you  all  find  in  her, 
or  what's  to  become  of  her.  I'm  just  annoyed 
about  her  in  every  way.  I'm  sure,  being  a  friend 
of  her  ladyship  at  the  Manor,  you  mean  kindly  by 
her;  but  whatever  would  she  do  visiting  with  fine 
people  like  you  ?  " 

Miriam  sat  listening  to  this  speech,  with  a  curious 
smile  on  her  lips.  To  Delia  the  scene  was  extremely 
painful.  She  had  come  wishing  to  give  pleasure,  and 
seemed  to  have  done  nothing  but  harm. 

"  Oh,  we  are  not  fine  people  in  the  least !  "  she  cried. 
"  We  won't  do  any  harm  to  your  daughter — we  wish 

87 


THE     LADDER 

to  know  her  better,  because  we  admire  her  powers  of 
mind." 

"  Miriam's  powers  of  mind !  "  echoed  Mrs.  Sadler. 
Often  she  had  lamented  over  what  she  considered  the 
hopeless  stamp  of  her  daughter's  intellect.  How  fre- 
quently, for  instance,  she  had  been  unable  to  follow 
Mr.  Hobbes's  more  argumentative  sermons  in  chapel, 
and  had  not  been  ashamed  to  say  so.  As  a  rule, 
mothers  are  apt  to  think  too  highly  of  the  abilities 
of  their  offspring;  but  there  are  exceptions  to  every 
rule,  and  Mrs.  Sadler  was  one  of  these.  The  dictum 
of  the  Pillar  connection  had  always  been  that  Miriam 
was  "  disappointing,"  and  Mrs.  Sadler  had  agreed  in 
this  verdict.  Now  from  the  lips  of  a  stranger  she 
heard  the  astonishing  statement  that  her  daughter  had 
powers  of  mind ;  she  could  scarcely  believe  what  she 
heard. 

Things  were  then  at  this  disagreeable  pass  when 
Mrs.  Hobbes  made  her  appearance  coming  up  to  the 
door.  Never  had  Mrs.  Hobbes  been  so  sincerely  wel- 
comed before  by  Miriam.  "  Mother,  there  is  Mrs. 
Hobbes  coming  to  the  door ;  she  probably  wishes  to  see 
you,"  she  said.  Mrs.  Sadler  did  not  need  to  hear  this 
twice ;  she  probably  was  feeling  the  situation  difficult, 
also. 

"  I'll  just  go  and  see  what  she  wants,  if  you'll  excuse 
me,"  she  said,  rising,  with  an  air  of  evident  relief,  to 
leave  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed,  Miriam  turned  to  her  visitor. 

"  My  mother  cannot  understand,"  she  said  slowly. 
"  She  does  not  understand  me,  or  any  of  the  things 
I  am  interested  in." 

88 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I  see,  I  see,"  said  Delia  Gore  quickly.  "  But  you 
will  come,  will  you  not  ?  "  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  added,  "  You  won't  have  these  stupid  feel- 
ings about  class,  will  you?  We  think  it  is  possible 
to  forget  them — Alan  and  I — we  like  to  know  people 
for  themselves,  not  for  their  circumstances." 

Miriam  had  quite  got  over  her  momentary  feeling 
of  constraint  with  Miss  Gore;  something  about  her 
made  her  feel  it  easy  to  discuss  even  such  a  difficult 
subject  as  this  was. 

"  I  am  sure  what  you  say  should  be  true,"  she  said ; 
"  but  if  it  were  only  a  question  of  knowing  people 
themselves,  why  don't  you  come  and  stay  here  with 
me?  We  would  really  know  each  other  better  that 
way;  you  know  nothing  at  all  about  my  kind  of  life, 
I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  how  nice  you  are ! "  cried  Delia,  laughing. 
Miriam  laughed,  too,  but  she  added : 

"  We  should  then  require  to  talk  all  the  time  about 
books  and  ideas,  because  these  would  be  the  only  things 
we  had  in  common." 

"  You  do  go  to  the  very  root  of  things !  "  Delia  ex- 
claimed admiringly. 

"  I  generally  see  the  real  truth  about  things,  I  think," 
Miriam  admitted ;  "  and  that's  the  truth  about  this.  I 
want  to  come  and  stay  with  you,  and  be  friends  with 
you,  Miss  Gore,  but  I  wonder  if  such  a  friendship  could 
be  possible  ?  " 

"  Well,  will  you  come  and  try  ?  "  Delia  persisted. 

Miriam  sat  and  thought  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
two.  She  looked  at  Delia  Gore,  at  her  beautiful 
clothes,  then  down  at  her  own  dress.  It  was  not  even 

89 


THE     LADDER 

peculiar,  just  ordinary  to  the  last  degree — it  spoke 
of  class :  not  the  dress  of  a  working  woman,  not  the 
dress  of  a  lady — just  midway  between  the  two. 

"  I  would  have  to  come  to  you  looking  as  I  do  to- 
day," she  said  at  last ;  "  and  that  is  quite  different  from 
you.  I  do  not  care  about  dress — I  wish  I  did.  I  do 
not  know  what  to  wear,  as  women  like  you  do." 

Delia  Gore  laughed  again. 

"  The  author  of  the  '  Treatise  on  Democracy ' 
should  not  have  all  these  scruples,"  she  said. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  final  argument  that  won  the  day. 
At  any  rate,  when  Delia  left  the  house  a  few  minutes 
later,  Miriam  had  promised  to  go  to  London  and  stay 
with  her.  Mrs.  Sadler  came  back  to  the  parlor  and 
sank  down  into  the  armchair. 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  to  say  or  think,"  she 
said.  "  I'm  so  put  about  I've  given  up  the  prayer 
meeting.  Whatever  was  this  about  your  going  to  Lon- 
don to  visit  people  you  never  saw  before  ?  " 

Miriam  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  where  her  mother 
sat,  and  endeavored  to  make  the  whole  thing  plain  to 
her.  But  even  when  she  had  grasped  the  facts  of  the 
case,  Mrs.  Sadler  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  know  as  I  should  let  you  think  of  it,"  she 
said.  "  I  must  go  over  to  the  Manor  to-morrow  and 
see  Aunt  Pillar  about  it.  I  think  a  great  deal  of  her 
advice,  and  she  can  tell  me  all  about  these  Gores." 

Miriam  said  nothing.  She  knew  that  as  her  aunt 
decreed,  for  or  against,  so  her  fate  would  be  decided. 
From  a  certain  vulgar  strength  of  character,  Aunt 
Pillar  had  gained  a  great  ascendancy  over  her  rela- 
tives. Combined  with  this,  her  position  at  the  Manor 

90 


TO     THE     STARS 

had  given  her  what  her  family  considered  a  great 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  so  her  opinion  was  law 
with  them  all. 

Aunt  Pillar  had,  as  she  would  have  expressed  it, 
"  no  opinion  "  of  her  niece  Miriam.  She  considered 
her  a  failure — a  woman  not  likely  to  marry,  and  not 
able  to  make  a  place  for  herself  in  the  world  without 
a  husband.  Once  or  twice,  in  a  tentative  sort  of  way, 
she  had  suggested  that  Miriam  might  be  the  better 
for  having  something  to  do,  and  had  even  hinted  that 
it  would  be  possible  to  "  speak  to  her  ladyship  for  her." 
But  Miriam  did  not  look  upon  Lady  Joyce  as  the  well- 
spring  of  all  things,  as  Aunt  Pillar  did,  and  had  re- 
ceived the  suggestion  coldly.  She  knew  that  the  sort 
of  position  her  aunt  wanted  her  to  get,  would  never 
satisfy  her. 

"  I'll  go  over  early  to-morrow,"  Mrs.  Sadler  re- 
peated ;  "  but  I  scarcely  think  Aunt  Pillar  will  ap- 
prove of  it." 

"  Very  well,  mother ;  but  do  you  think  it  much  mat- 
ters whether  she  approves  or  not  ?  "  Miriam  asked — 
an  unfortunate  question  which  only  provoked  the  usual 
retort : 

"  Oh,  dear !    Whatever  will  you  say  next  ?  " 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MRS.  SADLER  timed  her  visit  to  her  sister  better 
than  Miriam  had  done  on  that  hot  and  momentous 
Sunday  afternoon  when  she  first  saw  Mr.  Alan  Gore. 
Aunt  Pillar's  after-dinner  nap  was  over,  and  she  was 
therefore  in  a  most  amiable  mood  to  receive  visitors. 
Domestic  matters  had  been  going  smoothly,  too,  at 
the  Manor,  so  she  greeted  her  sister  very  pleasantly. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Priscilla ;  come  and  sit  down ; 
it's  not  often  I've  a  visit  from  you.  I'll  be  having  my 
tea  directly,"  she  said,  drawing  up  a  chair  for  her 
sister. 

Mrs.  Sadler  sat  down  and  threw  off  her  mantle, 
exclaiming  at  the  heat. 

"  I've  come  to  consult  you,  Susan,"  she  said  then, 
with  an  air  of  great  importance. 

•  Aunt  Pillar  drew  her  chair  closer  to  the  table,  and 
folded  her  fat  hands  on  the  bright  magenta  table- 
cloth in  an  attitude  of  attention. 

"  Well,  and  what  may  it  be — not  money  matters,  I 
hope?  I  warned  you  against  them  building  societies 
years  ago." 

"  No,  no ;  not  money  matters  at  all ;  it's  Miriam." 

The  family  oracle  pursed  her  lips  with  an  air  of 
extraordinary  wisdom.  She  had  surmised  that  ere 
long  Miriam  would  "  cause  trouble." 

"  I'm  not  altogether  surprised,  Priscilla,"  she  said. 
92 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I've  always  considered  her  a  strange  girl — she's  un- 
natural. I  wish  I  saw  her  more  like  Jim's  girls — see 
how  well  they  are  going  off."  (By  this  phrase  Aunt 
Pillar  signified  marriage.)  "  But  Miriam  never  seems 
to  take  up  with  any  young  men.  She's  too  fond  of 
books ;  I  wouldn't  allow  it ;  you  never  have  been  firm 
enough  with  the  girl." 

Aunt  Pillar  shook  her  head,  looking  very  grave  in- 
deed. She  had  decided  not  to  trouble  her  sister  with 
the  story  of  Mr.  Gore  and  the  books;  but  now  she 
wondered  if  any  whisper  of  it  had  reached  her. 

"  You  say  you  wouldn't  allow  it,  Susan ;  but  the  girl 
does  it  in  spite  of  me.  She's  been  what  she  calls 
'  studying '  three  hours  every  day  of  late." 

"  Come,  now,  I  call  that  intolerable,"  said  Aunt 
Pillar.  She  brought  down  her  clinched  hand  on  the 
table  with  a  thump.  "  Quite  intolerable.  Study  is  just 
a  luxury  for  rich  people,  like  any  other.  If  she  wishes 
to  work  (but  she  doesn't),  let  her  be  a  school-teacher 
and  do  work  that  will  pay,  work  that  there  is  some 
money  in.  I  have  no  patience  with  such  nonsense ! " 

"  Well,  but  listen,  Susan.  This  was  bad  enough ; 
but  didn't  I  find  out  yesterday  that  she's  been  writing." 

"Writing!"  echoed  Aunt  Pillar.  "What  has  she 
to  write  about  ?  But  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Priscilla, 
the  girl  is  very  conceited.  Things  have  come  to  my 
knowledge  you  would  scarcely  believe.  I  didn't  mean 
to  tell  you ;  but  now  perhaps  I  should " 

"  Is  it  about  this  Mr.  Gore  ?  "  Mrs.  Sadler  asked, 
unable  to  restrain  herself. 

"That's  it.  So  she  has  told  you,  has  she?  Two 
months  ago  she  met  him  in  this  room,  and  that  same 
7  93 


THE     LADDER 

week  she  had  the  presumption  to  speak  to  him  on  the 
road,  and  ask  him  to  lend  her  books.  I'll  warrant  she 
never  told  you  that." 

"  O  Susan,  it  can't  be  true ;  my  girl  surely  would 
never  be  so  forward  !  " 

"  As  I  understand,  it  was  this  way :  Mr.  Gore  came 
to  see  me  that  same  evening  and  asked  most  particu- 
larly about  Miriam,  your  circumstances  and  altogether. 
But  I've  never  heard  since  if  he  sent  the  books ;  that's 
another  story." 

"  Yes,  he  did,  but  not  to  our  house ;  they  were  sent 
to  the  house  of  that  Miss  Foxe  that  Miriam  has  made 
up  with,  and  it's  there  she  has  been  studying ;  and  now 
she  has  sent  this  that  she  wrote  to  Mr.  Gore." 

"  You  don't  say  so !  Tis  downright  disgraceful ! 
Whatever  can  we  do  with  the  girl  ?  And  Mr.  Gore  such 
a  fine  gentleman,  too ;  own  cousin  to  her  ladyship ! " 

"  However  did  my  Miriam  think  to  do  such  a 
thing !  "  Mrs.  Sadler  moaned. 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  the  truth,  then,"  said  Aunt 
Pillar ;  "  and  you  may  believe  it  or  not,  as  you  like. 
Hoskins,  the  butler,  told  me  that  on  the  fete  day,  Mr. 
Alan  Gore  brought  Miriam  into  the  house  by  the  front 
door,  walked  her  through  the  hall  and  took  her  into 
the  library.  There  they  were  for  close  on  half  an  hour, 
and  Goodness  alone  knows  what  the  girl  was  saying 
to  him  all  that  time.  Now,  that's  gospel  truth ;  Hos- 
kins told  me,  and  Hoskins  had  it  from  the  footmen 
that  saw  them  come  in." 

Mrs.  Sadler  was  quite  overcome  by  this  bit  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence  against  her  daughter.  Dark  con- 
jectures flitted  across  her  fancy.  She  leaned  forward. 

94 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  What  I  want  to  know,  Susan,  is  what  sort  of  a 
gentleman  may  this  Mr.  Alan  Gore  be  ?  " 

"  Why,  a  very  fine  gentleman,  indeed,  Priscilla. 
One  of  the  Gores  of  Replands.  You  may  see  his  name 
in  the  papers  any  day,  too,  speakin'  here  and  speakin' 
there,  and  so  much  thought  of.  He's  never  here  but 
there's  a  big  dinner  and  half  the  county  to  meet 
him." 

"  That  kind,  I've  often  heard,  are  just  the  worst," 
said  Mrs.  Sadler;  and  then  dropping  her  voice  to  a 
thrilling  whisper  she  added,  "  for  running  after  the 
women." 

But  here  Aunt  Pillar  burst  into  a  huge,  unrestrained 
laugh. 

"  O  Priscilla,  Priscilla !  you  may  keep  your  silly 
mind  easy  there !  Mr.  Alan  Gore  running  after  Mir- 
iam for  bad  ends !  Oh,  dear !  oh,  dear !  Miriam  that 
hasn't  a  beau  in  her  own  rank ;  the  men  never  look  at 
her.  No,  no,  it's  not  that  that  troubles  me,  it's  the 
presumption  of  the  girl — set  her  up !  " 

Mrs.  Sadler  was  hugely  relieved.  She  had  pic- 
tured Alan  Gore  to  herself  as  a  sort  of  Don  Juan. 

"  Tell  me,  then,  why  does  he  take  this  interest  in  my 
Miriam  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Oh,  I'll  be  bound  she  has  made  up  some  fine  story 
to  him  about  her  love  of  study.  Mr.  Gore's  great  for 
education  and  philanthropy.  That's  how  she  caught 
him." 

But  Mrs.  Sadler  had  reserved  her  best  news  to  the 
end.  She  now  produced  it. 

"  Miss  Gore,  his  sister,  is  at  the  Manor  just  now,  I 
understand  ?  " 

95 


THE     LADDER 

"  Yes,  Miss  Delia ;  what  about  her  ?  " 

"  Give  me  time,  Susan.  Well,  she  came  to  call  at 
our  house  yesterday  afternoon,  and  before  she  left 
she  had  it  all  arranged  that  Miriam  is  to  visit  her  in 
London." 

The  last  clause  of  this  sentence  was  whispered,  and 
Mrs.  Sadler  cast  a  frightened  glance  round  as  she 
spoke. 

Aunt  Pillar  made  short  work  with  this  story. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  she  said ;  "  and  that's  flat." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you  may  believe  it  or  not,  as  you 
like,  but  my  ears  heard  it,  and  my  tongue's  telling 
what  I  heard,"  retorted  Mrs.  Sadler,  a  little  nettled 
by  her  sister's  incredulity. 

"  Well,  I  never  did !  Miriam  to  visit  with  the  Gores 
in  London !  Are  you  sure,  Priscilla,  that  you  made 
no  mistake  ?  " 

"  None  whatever.  They  seemed  to  have  it  all  ar- 
ranged ;  but  the  question  is,  is  she  to  be  allowed  to 
gof" 

Aunt  Pillar  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  folded  her 
hands  across  her  waist.  She  pushed  out  her  under 
lip  in  an  expression  of  deep  deliberation,  and  sat  silent 
for  quite  five  minutes,  till  her  sister  cried  out  impa- 
tiently : 

"  Can't  you  give  me  an  answer,  Susan  ?  " 

"  I'm  just  calculating  back  and  forth,"  Aunt  Pillar 
replied.  "  This  you've  told  me  has  altered  my  ideas 
of  the  girl  a  good  deal.  You  see,  Priscilla,  Mr.  Gore's 
no  ordinary  man,  and  if  he  thinks  so  highly  of  the 
girl  as  to  condescend  to  ask  her  to  stay  with  them, 
why,  it's  plain  he  must  see  more  in  her  than  we  see. 

96 


TO     THE     STARS 

It  may  be  the  making  of  her  in  some  way.  Mr.  Gore 
has  influence,  you  see,  in  so  many  ways;  but  yet  I 
can't  see  Miriam  visiting  at  that  house ;  why,  the  serv- 
ants' suppers  will  be  finer  than  the  dinners  she's  used 
to  at  home !  " 

"  Then,  there's  another  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Sadler. 
"  I've  heard  Mr.  Gore  spoken  of  as  a  freethinker.  I 
fear  at  least  he  has  very  loose  views  on  religion." 

Aunt  Pillar  had  not,  however,  the  overreligiosity 
of  her  sister ;  in  fact,  she  had  more  than  once  openly 
expostulated  with  her  on  her  overstrict  notions. 

"  You'll  never  get  that  girl  off  your  hands,  bring- 
ing her  up  so  strict,"  she  had  said.  So  now  she  would 
not  hear  a  word  of  this  new  difficulty. 

"  No,  no.  Mr.  Alan  Gore  won't  hurt  your  daugh- 
ter," she  said. 

"  Then  you  think  she  should  go?  " 

"  I  think  so,  Priscilla.  I  think  so,  on  the  whole. 
Depend  upon  it,  they  have  some  scheme  to  help  the 
girl.  But  I  must  say  of  all  the  ideas — Miriam  to  visit 
with  the  Gores !  Well,  well !  " 

Had  Mrs.  Sadler  had  a  scrap  of  motherly  pride  in 
her  nature,  this  openly  expressed  astonishment  must 
have  roused  it,  but  she  had  not.  Miriam  was  the  last 
sort  of  daughter  she  would  have  chosen  to  possess; 
their  tastes  were  too  radically  different  to  meet  at  any 
point;  she  viewed  her  with  more  bewilderment  than 
affection. 

As  Mrs.  Sadler,  a  little  later,  rose  to  go,  Aunt  Pillar 
asked  her  to  wait  a  minute.  She  went  over  to  a  writ- 
ing table  which  stood  in  the  window,  and  unlocking 
a  drawer,  took  from  it  two  five-pound  notes. 

97 


THE     LADDER 

"  Here,  Priscilla,"  she  said.  "  Put  this  in  your  purse, 
and  give  it  to  Miriam  from  me.  Tell  her  I  refused 
her  money  to  spend  on  study;  but  this  is  different. 
Tell  her  to  get  a  new  dress  and  hat.  A  black  cash- 
mere with  some  beads  would  be  quiet  and  dressy  both. 
She'll  need  it.  See,  put  these  in  your  purse." 

"  I'm  sure  you're  very  kind,  Susan.  Miriam  won't 
know  what  to  say,"  the  mother  murmured,  as  she 
squeezed  the  notes  into  her  purse.  "  I  must  be  off 
now,  and  thank  you  for  your  advice  and  for  this." 

Aunt  Pillar  saw  her  sister  to  the  door,  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  parlor,  there  to  marvel  afresh  over  the 
visit  that  her  niece  was  to  pay  to  the  Gores. 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XV 

MIRIAM  stood  looking  round  her  bedroom  in  the 
Gores'  London  house.  Her  yellow  tin  trunk  had  been 
brought  upstairs,  and  lay  forlornly  on  the  luggage 
stand,  waiting  to  be  unpacked.  She  felt  very  insig- 
nificant in  the  large  room ;  a  feeling  of  shy  sadness 
came  over  her;  had  she  come  here  to  stay  with  these 
great,  clever  people,  only  to  be  mortified,  and  find  out 
her  own  worthlessness  ? 

Instead  of  unpacking  the  yellow  trunk,  she  sat  down 
and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  There  she  sat, 
reviewing  the  position  in  which  she  found  herself. 
Here  she  was,  among  people  whose  world  was  so  dif- 
ferent from  her  own,  that  she  sometimes  scarcely  knew 
what  they  were  talking  about.  The  size  of  the  house 
bewildered  her,  the  servants  frightened  her ;  and  above 
all,  oh,  how  she  longed  to  please  her  entertainers,  to 
show  them  they  had  not  been  mistaken  in  her !  What 
was  the  best  way  to  face  the  situation,  she  wondered? 
Miriam  took  from  her  pocket  that  little  blank  book  we 
have  known  her  to  write  in  before,  and,  after  an  inter- 
val of  deep  thought,  wrote  down  the  following  reso- 
lutions : 

I.    To  affect  nothing: 

a.  No  knowledge  of  things  I  know  nothing  about,  how- 
ever ignorant  I  may  appear;  let  me  rather  confess 
ignorance  than  pretend  to  knowledge  I  have  not  got. 

99 


THE     LADDER 

b.  Of  manners  or  customs  of  society  that  I  am  ignorant  of. 

c.  Of  people  I  know  nothing  of. 

II.     I  resolve  to  be  ashamed  of  neither 

a.  My  class; 

b.  My  poverty; 

c.  My  opinions;  nor 

d.  My  clothes. 

I  think  if  I  can  keep  these  resolutions,  sensible  people  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  me. 

This  extraordinary  document  she  signed  and  dated. 

Then  she  resolutely  took  out  her  keys  and  began  to 
unpack  the  yellow  trunk.  Clothes  always  look  their 
worst  after  a  journey ;  and  though  Miriam  had  no 
quick  eye  for  such  details,  the  crushed,  common-look- 
ing garments  seemed  worse  to  her  than  ever  before. 

She  had  one  shabby  hairbrush  to  lay  upon  the 
wide,  beautiful  toilet  table;  a  thick  cotton  nightdress 
trimmed  with  Swiss  embroidery  to  put  out  on  the  mag- 
nificent bed ;  a  pink  cotton  dressing  gown  to  hang  be- 
side it. 

When  all  these  paltry  belongings  had  been  disposed 
about  the  room,  she  looked  round  it  and  smiled  and 
shook  her  head ;  they  were  not  suited  to  such  a  place. 
Then  the  question  of  what  to  wear  that  evening  came 
up  to  be  considered.  Miriam  had  no  evening  dress, 
only  a  high  black  gown  of  thin  woolen  stuff,  or  a 
prune-colored  merino  which  had  been  a  good  deal 
worn.  She  found  herself  regretting  the  foolish  pride 
which  had  made  her  refuse  Emmie  Pillar's  kindly 
meant  offer  of  her  one  evening  gown  ("  the  one  Dr. 
Pratt  had  admired  at  the  Smiths'  little  dance").  It 

100 


TO     THE     STARS 

would  have  been  much  better  than  either  of  the  two 
dresses  she  had  to  choose  between  now. 

Finally,  she  put  on  the  black  stuff  dress  and  went 
down  in  it;  no  one  could  have  called  her  well-dressed 
as  she  came  into  the  drawing-room.  Delia  Gore  had 
not  come  down  yet,  but  Mr.  Gore  was  standing  beside 
the  window  reading  a  newspaper.  He  threw  it  down 
and  came  to  meet  Miriam  as  she  advanced  rather 
timidly  into  the  room.  Yes,  it  was  the  same  man  she 
had  met  in  Aunt  Pillar's  room,  the  same  man  she  had 
spoken  to  in  the  Hindcup  meadows — and  here  she  was 
in  his  house  as  his  guest. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you ;  I  hope  you  had  a  com- 
fortable journey  from  Hindcup  ?  "  he  said.  Miriam 
detected  no  least  shade  of  class  distinction  in  the  way 
he  spoke  to  her. 

"  I  have  come  to  be  one  of  their  world  for  a  little," 
she  thought,  "  and  I  am  going  to  enjoy  it,  and  forget 
these  hateful  feelings." 

"  I  feel  so  strange  in  this  large  house,"  she  said.  "  I 
have  lived  always  in  such  a  small  one  that  the  rooms 
seem  too  big  for  me — sort  of  empty.  I  wish  to  draw 
the  furniture  nearer  together." 

"  Oh,  but  you  will  forget  that  in  about  an  hour,'' 
said  Gore,  laughing.  Delia  came  in  then,  and  they 
went  down  to  dinner.  Miriam  wondered  again  if  she 
could  keep  her  resolutions.  At  every  turn  she  was 
tempted  to  break  them.  She  hoped  the  servants — 
those  magnificent  creatures — did  not  think  her  a  very 
strange  visitor. 

"  How  contemptible  of  me  to  think  such  things,"  she 
thought.  "  Of  course  the  servants  must  know  quite 

101 


THE     LADDER 

well  the  sort  of  person  I  am ;  everyone  looks  what  they 
are,  pretty  nearly ;  if  I  wish  to  be  thought  better,  I  must 
become  better;  these  things  must  be  from  inside." 
While  she  went  on  thinking  these  thoughts,  she  spoke 
of  all  manner  of  other  things. 

"  I  have  asked  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courteis  to  dinner  to- 
morrow," Delia  said.  "  Alan  tells  me  he  is  a  friend 
of  yours." 

It  pleased  the  girl  to  think  that  she  had  even  this 
slender  link  of  connection  with  her  entertainers,  that 
it  should  be  possible  for  them  to  ask  any  acquaintance 
of  hers  to  dinner. 

"  I  have  never  seen  Mrs.  Courteis ;  what  is  she 
like  ?  "  Miriam  asked. 

"  Oh,  exactly  the  sort  of  wife  you  would  have 
thought  Courteis  would  have  avoided !  "  Alan  Gore 
said,  laughing.  "  Long  ago  she  may  have  been  at- 
tractive, but  she  certainly  isn't  so  now.  They  enter- 
tain a  great  deal  in  a  curious,  haphazard  kind  of  way ; 
all  the  distinguished  people  that  come  to  London  pass 
through  their  house  at  one  time  or  another,  and  Mrs. 
Courteis  always  amuses  me  by  her  mild  toleration  of 
them  all.  She  is  so  accustomed  to  celebrities,  she 
doesn't  exert  herself  in  the  least  for  them — just,  as  I 
say,  tolerates  them !  " 

"  We  shall  go  there  one  evening,  I  expect,"  said 
Delia. 

"  Well,  then,  you  must  do  your  best  to  be  stupid, 
Miss  Sadler,"  said  Alan  Gore,  "  just  for  the  sake  of 
poor  Mrs.  Courteis ;  she  is  quite  as  bored  by  clever  peo- 
ple as  most  of  us  are  by  the  opposite." 

"  What  else  shall  we  do  ? "  Miriam  asked  timidly, 

102 


TO     THE     STARS 

after  a  little.  "  Remember,  everything  in  your  life 
is  new  to  me." 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  see  Lallah  Rhys.  Don't  you 
think,  Alan,  I  should  take  her  to  see  Lallah  ?  " 

"  Do  you  fancy  that  sort  of  person  ?  "  Alan  asked, 
and  laughed  again.  "  She's  more  than  charming,  of 
course,  but  are  you  interested  in  her  vocation  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said  Miriam,  though  it 
cost  her  a  good  deal  to  say  in  words. 

"  She  acts ;  she  is  a  very  well-known  actress  just 
now,"  said  Delia,  without  betraying  any  surprise  at 
such  strange  ignorance. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her  very  much ;  it  is  always 
interesting  to  see  new  kinds  of  people,"  said  Miriam. 

"  We  shall  go  and  see  her  act  some  night,"  said 
Delia.  "  And  there's  Herman,  too ;  shall  we  go  and 
hear  Herman  ?  Divine  young  man !  "  Again  poor 
Miriam  had  to  confess  ignorance. 

"  Oh,  he  plays — plays  the  violin ;  a  very  wonderful 
creature.  He  is  a  friend  of  the  Courteises,  I  believe ; 
they  know  him  among  their  other  celebrities." 

"  I  know  nothing  about  music,"  said  Miriam,  and 
then,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  she  added :  "  All  these 
things  that  you  know  about  are  sealed  to  me;  isn't  it 
dreadful  ?  Can  I  ever  make  up  for  my  ignorance  ?  " 

The  servants  had  left  the  room,  and  the  lights  had 
been  put  down;  it  seemed  easier  to  speak  naturally 
now. 

"  I  tell  you  it's  a  positive  advantage,"  Alan  Gore 
said;  "you  come  to  these  things  with  such  a  fresh 
mind." 

"  It  is  an  advantage  I  would  be  willing  to  forego," 
103 


THE     LADDER 

said  Miriam  bitterly.  "  You  can't  imagine  what  it 
feels  like  not  to  know  what  other  people  are  talking 
about;  things  that  are  so  ordinary  to  them,  the  sort 
of  common  coin  of  the  world.  Now  what  can  I  talk 
about  with  you  and  Miss  Gore?  You  do  not  know 
any  of  my  friends,  and  I  know  none  of  yours.  If  I 
could  talk  about  plays  and  music,  and  actors  and  com- 
posers and  musicians  as  ordinary  women  of  the  world 
seem  able  to  do,  that  would  put  everything  right ;  but 
I  cannot.  It's  like  being  left  with  no  small  change 
in  your  purse.  The  sovereigns  may  be  more  valuable, 
perhaps,  but  the  shillings  and  sixpences  are  far  more 
useful !  " 

Miriam's  intensity  of  feeling  had  betrayed  her  into 
this  long  speech,  and  as  she  became  aware  how  long 
it  had  been,  she  blushed  and  felt  ashamed.  Delia  and 
Alan  Gore  were  looking  at  her  with  grave  interest, 
and  when  she  stopped  speaking,  Alan  made  answer : 

"  I  must  carry  on  your  own  metaphor,  Miss  Sadler, 
and  tell  you  to  remember  that  you  can  always  get  six- 
pence for  a  sovereign,  but  I  don't  know  any  process  by 
which  you  can  get  a  sovereign  for  sixpence !  So  the 
one  is  a  safer  capital  to  start  with  than  the  other." 
Delia,  with  a  woman's  keen  perceptions,  agreed  bluntly 
with  Miriam. 

"  I  understand  quite,"  she  said.  "  But,  you  know, 
it's  all  a  sort  of  trick ;  you  can  learn  it  just  as  you  might 
learn  French  or  German — a  great  deal  of  it."  But 
Miriam  would  not  lay  the  flattering  unction  to  her 
soul.  She  knew  better. 

When  she  went  up  to  bed  that  night,  it  was  certainly 
not  to  sleep.  Fragments  of  conversation  haunted  her 

104 


TO     THE     STARS 

memory,  and  every  moment  new  and  interesting  chan- 
nels of  thought  opened  out  for  her.  In  the  compara- 
tive quiet  that  falls  between  two  and  four  in  a  London 
night,  Miriam  heard  a  far-off  clock  strike.  To  her 
country  imagination  it  tolled  out  an  unholy  hour  at 
which  to  be  awake. 

"  I  shall  never  get  to  sleep  to-night,"  she  thought, 
tossing  on  her  soft  pillows.  The  church  clock  at  Hind- 
cup  would  be  striking  the  same  hour  at  that  moment. 
She  seemed  to  hear  its  deep,  tranquil  note  booming 
across  the  quiet  country. 

"  I  almost  wish  I  was  at  home  again,"  she  thought. 
"  Why  did  I  come  ?  I  have  so  many  wonderful,  ex- 
citing things  to  do  and  see,  and  oh,  how  tired  I  am! 
How  extraordinary  to  live  a  life  like  this ;  life  must 
be  more  valuable  lived  this  way;  they  are  not  all  of 
the  same  value — the  life  of  Mr.  Hobbes  and  the  life 
of  Mr.  Gore,  for  instance — in  the  sight  of  God  ?  Yes, 
even  in  His  sight — I  wonder — four  o'clock — there's 
the  daylight." 

She  turned  once  on  her  pillow  and  slept  at  last. 


105 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XVI 

THE  visit  to  Lallah  Rhys  was,  as  you  will  hear,  a 
turning  point  in  Miriam's  life;  she  was  not  in  when 
Delia  and  Miriam  arrived,  but  had  left  a  message  that 
they  were  to  wait  for  her.  Delia  sat  down  on  a  sofa 
and  took  up  a  magazine;  but  Miriam  walked  to  the 
end  of  the  room  and  stood  there,  taking  in  all  its  ar- 
rangements. She  was  still  standing  looking  round 
her  when  the  door  opened  and  Lallah  Rhys  came  in. 
With  something  of  a  stage  manner,  she  made  her  en- 
trance ;  a  huge  bouquet  of  lilies  and  roses  in  one  hand, 
the  other  held  out  in  welcome  to  Delia  Gore.  Lallah 
was  at  that  time  at  the  very  zenith  of  her  fame  and 
beauty,  her  cup  filled  to  the  brim  with  the  wine  of  life. 
Miriam  held  her  breath  to  watch  her  cross  the  room. 
She  tossed  her  bouquet  down  on  a  chair,  and  came 
toward  the  girl,  holding  out  both  hands  to  her  with  a 
beautiful,  easy  gesture  of  welcome. 

"  And  this  is  the  young  woman  who  is  going  to  set 
the  Thames  on  fire !  "  she  said.  All  at  once,  standing 
beside  this  radiant  creature  who  held  her  hands  and 
looked  at  her  out  of  brilliant,  wonderful  eyes,  Miriam 
understood  her  own  failure  as  a  woman ;  she  was 
abashed. 

"  Come  and  sit  down,"  Lallah  said,  drawing  Miriam 
forward.  She  gave  her  visitors  a  seat  one  on  each 
side  of  her  on  the  sofa,  and,  still  holding  Miriam's 
hand,  continued  a  steam  of  talk  all  the  time. 

106 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Yes,  she  had  been  opening  a  Bazaai-  for  Cripple 
Children,  that  was  where  the  bouquet  came  from;  she 
had  so  many  flowers  she  didn't  know  what  to  do  with 
them;  she  wished  people  would  get  tired  of  giving 
bouquets  to  her;  and  yet,  it  was  sweet  of  them,  too, 
wasn't  it?"  As  she  spoke,  Lallah  would  turn  from 
one  of  her  visitors  to  the  other,  with  sudden,  exquisite 
smiles  and  gestures  that  illuminated  all  she  said. 

Miriam's  large  somber  eyes  followed  every  move- 
ment of  this  lovely  creature ;  she  drank  in  every  word 
she  uttered.  Then  gravely,  in  the  first  pause  that  fell, 
she  asked  her : 

"  Have  you  a  happy  life  ?    Does  it  satisfy  you  ?  " 

Lallah  flung  herself  back  against  the  sofa  cushions 
with  a  little  cry  of  amusement. 

"Do  I  find  life  satisfying?  Why  not,  black  eyes? 
Am  I  happy?  Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  am  young,  and,  they 
say,  beautiful  and  successful.  What  more  would  mor- 
tal want  ?  " 

"  It  must  be  strange  to  be  so  beautiful,"  said  Mir- 
iam. "  Do  you  think  a  great  deal  about  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  accustomed — "  Lallah  began,  and  then, 
with  a  sudden  turning  of  the  tables  she  inquired: 
"  And  what  are  your  pleasures  ?  " 

Miriam  did  not  answer  this  question  immediately. 
Then  she  said :  "  I  have  great  pleasure  in  thought,  and 
in  looking  at  what  is  beautiful,  but  I  do  not  suppose 
I  have  ever  had  what  you  call  '  pleasure.' " 

"  You  take  life  too  seriously,  my  friend,"  Lallah 
assured  her;  "think  too  much  and  enjoy  too  little. 
Come  into  my  room  and  see  my  new  garments,  which 
are  beautiful  to  behold !  " 


THE     LADDER 

She  sprang  up  as  if  to  dismiss  such  seriousness, 
and  led  them  into  a  room  which  opened  off  the  one 
they  were  in.  There  Miriam  was  treated  to  a  display 
of  clothing  such  as  her  wildest  dreams  could  not  have 
imagined.  Lallah  lay  back  in  a  chair,  calling  to  her 
maid  to  bring  out  the  dresses  one  by  one  as  they  were 
wanted.  Sometimes  she  would  clap  her  hands  like  a 
child,  in  delight  at  the  beauty  of  the  dresses;  some- 
times she  would  pause  and  point  out  a  defect  in  them. 
Delia  was  scarcely  less  ecstatic  than  the  owner  of  the 
garments,  but  Miriam  sat  a  silent  witness  of  the  dis- 
play. Then  suddenly  Lallah  jumped  up  and  began  to 
tear  off  her  hat,  and  call  distractedly  to  her  maid : 

"  Effie,  Effie !  I  shall  be  late !  my  blue  dress,  quick ! 
Good-by,  dear  Delia.  Good-by,  Sombre  One;  come 
and  see  me  act.  I  have  some  new  stage  gowns  that 
would  enchant  you !  "  She  began  to  whirl  about  the 
room,  pulling  out  drawers  and  tumbling  their  contents, 
talking,  laughing,  and  directing  her  maid  all  at  once. 
Miriam  and  Delia  hurried  away,  laughing  also,  and 
found  their  way  downstairs. 

"  Well,"  Delia  asked,  as  they  gained  the  street, 
"  what  are  your  impressions  ?  " 

"  I  used  to  think  that  it  was  a  hard  fate  to  be  a 
woman,"  Miriam  answered ;  "  but  don't  you  think  that 
a  woman  like  that  has  probably  had  more  in  her  life, 
take  it  all  in  all,  than  any  man? — more  joy,  more 
gratification  ?  " 

"  Yes,  gratification  is  the  word ;  she  has  certainly 
supped  full  on  that,"  Delia  admitted. 

"  I  think  I  shall  always  thank  you  for  letting  me 
observe  her,"  said  Miriam.  This  glimpse  of  all  that 

108 


TO     THE     STARS 

a  woman  might  be  had  indeed  been  a  revelation  to 
her ;  she  pondered  over  it  so  long  and  deeply  that  Delia 
had  to  speak  to  her  several  times  before  she  answered, 
and  all  that  afternoon  she  was  silent  and  preoccupied. 
At  last  when  they  were  alone  in  the  drawing-room  she 
voiced  her  thoughts. 

"  Miss  Gore/'  she  said,  "  will  you  help  me  about 
something?  I  have  been  thinking " 

"  I  should  say  you  had !  "  laughed  Delia. 

"  I  have  been  thinking.  I  see  that  dress  and  ap- 
pearance are  of  more  importance  than  I  used  to  think 
they  were.  I  had  not  realized  it  before.  I  thought 
only  foolish  women  like  my  cousins  were  interested 
in  it." 

Delia  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"  I  know  what  has  done  this — Lallah  Rhys !  " 

"  Yes,  exactly.  I  know  I  can  never  look  pretty,  be- 
cause I  am  plain ;  but  I  wish  to  forget  my  appearance, 
and  now  I  think  about  it  because  my  clothes  are  all 
wrong  somehow.  Will  you  help  me  to  buy  the  right 
kind?" 

"Of  course  I  will ;  but  they  take  such  a  horrible 
amount  of  money." 

"  Aunt  Pillar  gave  me  ten  pounds,  and  I  have  five 
pounds  of  my  own  that  I  can  spend;  what  do  I  need 
most  ?  " 

Delia  was  too  honest  to  try  to  dissemble  on  this 
point. 

"  Well,  I  think  you  do  need  a  great  deal,"  she  said. 
"  You  need  a  morning  dress  and  an  evening  dress,  and 
a  new  hat,  and  new  boots  and  shoes,  and  gloves,  and 
how  are  you  to  get  all  that  for  fifteen  pounds  ?  " 
8  109 


THE     LADDER 

Miriam  then  began,  with  awful  plainness  of  speech, 
to  discuss  her  own  appearance. 

"  My  present  dresses  are  not  those  of  a  lady,"  she 
said ;  "  but  do  you  not  think  it  is  more  me  than  the 
clothes?  If  you  were  to  put  on  my  prune  merino, 
now,  Miss  Gore,  I  believe  you  would  look  beautiful 
in  it" 

"  No,  I  would  not,"  said  Delia  bluntly.  "  No  one 
could  look  beautiful  in  a  prune  merino.  I  would  look 
much  worse  than  you  do;  you  wear  it  with  a  kind  of 
simplicity  and  unconsciousness  that  robs  it  of  half  its 
terrors." 

"  I  shall  never  be  unconscious  of  it  again,"  said 
poor  Miriam.  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause :  "  Every- 
thing I  have  is  made  too  tightly,  I  see." 

"  Yes,  that  is  bad  making." 

"  And  the  black  jacket  I  wear  with  my  prune  dress 
is  all  wrong,  somehow — will  you  tell  me  why?  Black 
is  very  quiet,  surely,  and  the  jacket  is  made  plainly, 
then  why  does  it  look  wrong?  I  think  if  I  could  find 
a  reason  why  some  clothes  look  better  than  others  it 
would  help  me ;  but  it  seems  so  arbitrary." 

She  could  not  have  appealed  to  anyone  better  fitted 
to  advise  her  than  Delia  Gore,  who  was  always  well- 
dressed  though  she  did  not  follow  fashion  blindly,  as 
some  women  do.  She  sat  down  to  the  discussion  of 
the  problem  in  earnest,  trying  to  find  some  reasonable 
basis  for  why  one  color  or  style  looked  better  than 
another.  Her  listener  was  intensely  absorbed  in  it  all. 
There  was  nothing  very  original  in  the  arguments 
Delia  brought  forward,  but  Miriam  had  never  heard 
any  of  them  before. 

no 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Suitability/'  she  said  musingly.  "  Well,  now,  why 
are  my  clothes  unsuitable  just  now?  " 

"  Well,  this  is  summer,  and  you  are  wearing  thick, 
stuffy  materials  that  won't  wash,  and  never  look  fresh ; 
therefore  they  are  unsuitable  for  the  season." 

"  Then  why  does  my  black  cloth  gown  look  so  bad 
in  the  evening?  Is  it  not  suitable?" 

"  I  think  it  looks  bad  because  one  feels  you  should 
be  wearing  something  cooler  in  the  evening,  when  the 
rooms  are  hot;  something  not  made  tight  up  to  your 
chin,  and  down  to  your  wrists !  " 

"  I  see ;  and  then  why  would  it  be  unsuitable  for  me 
to  wear  an  evening  dress  at  home  ?  " 

Delia  hesitated  and  thought  for  a  minute. 

"  Perhaps  you  might  be  doing  some  sort  of  work 
at  home,  clearing  up  supper,  or  something — wouldn't 
that  seem  to  need  another  sort  of  dress  ?  " 

Yes,  Miriam  admitted ;  she  began  to  see  a  little  day- 
light through  things,  she  thought;  but  minor  points 
perplexed  her. 

"  Why,  Miss  Gore,  why  are  my  shoes  wrong?  Why 
should  toe-caps  stitched  in  white,  quite  neat,  firm  toe- 
caps,  make  my  shoes  look  so  different  from  yours  ?  " 

But  Delia  broke  down  here;  she  could  not  produce 
any  ethical  reason  why  toe-caps  stitched  with  white 
should  be  wrong. 

"  You  must  just  sometimes  come  back  to  the  point 
of  admitting  that  things  are  wrong,  though  you  can't 
possibly  say  why,"  she  said.  They  entered  then  upon 
less  abstract  considerations,  coming  down  to  the  ques- 
tion of  how  much  could  be  got  for  fifteen  pounds. 
Delia  was  fully  more  excited  than  Miriam ;  she  got  a 

in 


THE     LADDER 

sheet  of  paper  and  began  to  make  calculations  of  an 
abstruse  nature. 

"  It  must  be  moderately  cheap  stuff  well  made," 
she  announced  at  last.  "  I  shall  take  you  to  my  dress- 
maker— Helene ;  you  won't  mind  if  I  explain  a  little 
to  her,  will  you?  She  is  quite  an  understanding  per- 
son. She  will  say  she  can't  make  the  clothes  for  the 
money,  but  I  shall  make  her  do  it." 

"  I  shall  mind  very  much,"  said  Miriam ;  "  but  it 
must  be  done,  I  suppose." 

It  was  a  terrible  thought  to  the  poor  girl,  this  of 
facing  a  fashionable  dressmaker  and  having  herself 
"  explained  "  about.  She  determined,  however,  that  she 
would  go  through  with  it,  no  matter  how  painful  it 
might  be. 

"  /  won't  stop  till  I  look  like  other  women  on  the 
outside,"  she  said  to  herself,  but  the  resolution  cost 
her  dear. 

"  You  see,  Miss  Gore,"  she  explained,  "  I  used  to 
think  that  nothing  mattered  except  the  things  of  the 
mind;  now  I  see  that  everything  matters,  the  whole 
includes  the  part.  I  must  begin  with  outside  things, 
after  all." 

But  Delia  would  not  let  her  say  this. 

"  You  don't  do  yourself  justice  when  you  say  you 
must  begin  from  the  outside;  it  is  because  you  have 
got  the  things  of  your  mind  right,  that  you  now  want 
the  others  adjusted,  and  they  will  come  quite  easily, 
I'm  sure.  You  have  such  a  nice  sense  of  proportion 
and  suitability." 

Even  with  all  the  encouragement  Delia  could  give, 
Miriam  found  it  very  painful  to  go  to  Helene's  and 

112 


TO     THE     STARS 

confess  that  she  wanted  to  be  all  put  to  rights.  Delia 
was  very  practical;  she  went  into  the  subject  of  ex- 
pense down  to  the  uttermost  farthing,  stating  to  the 
dressmaker  exactly  how  much  her  friend  could  af- 
ford to  pay.  Then  the  usual  protestations  ensued :  it 
was  impossible  to  do  it  at  that  price ;  the  dresses  could 
not  be  satisfactory  unless  lined  throughout  with  the 
richest  silk;  madame  could  not  expect  such  a  sacri- 
fice to  be  made.  But  Delia  was  inflexible.  It  was 
quite  possible  to  do  them,  and  to  do  them  well,  and 
without  silk  linings,  and  there  would  be  no  sacrifice 
in  the  matter. 

So  the  argument  came  and  went  till  at  last  Helene 
capitulated,  and  sent  for  the  fitter. 

O  what  a  moment  that  was  for  Miriam  when  she 
stood  under  the  coldly  critical  eye  of  Helene  and  the 
fitter !  Her  poor,  common  garments  seemed  to  shrivel 
up  under  their  appraising  survey.  Then  Helene 
stepped  forward  and  laid  her  hands  firmly  on  Miriam's 
waist,  feeling  its  line. 

"  Madame ! "  she  exclaimed,  turning  to  Delia ; 
"  madame !  I  cannot,  no,  I  cannot ;  it  is  as  much  as 
my  reputation  is  worth  to  try  to  turn  out  a  satisfac- 
tory costume  over  a  corset  like  that.  Just  stop  a 
moment,  Miss  Jenner  "  (to  the  fitter)  "  we  must  go 
into  the  subject  before  we  go  any  further !  " 

Such  radical  reforms  had  not  suggested  themselves 
to  Miriam,  though  Delia  had  seen  the  difficulty  loom- 
ing ahead — she  looked  despairingly  at  her  friend. 
"  I  must  have  new  ones,"  she  whispered.  Delia 
nodded. 

"  You  supply  corsets,  Helene,"  she  said,  in  her  calm 

"3 


THE     LADDER 

voice.  "  Please  send  for  some  and  fit  the  lady  before 
we  go  further." 

Only  a  determination  not  to  give  in  could  have 
sustained  Miriam  through  the  ordeal  that  followed, 
when  her  simple  undergarments  were  passed  in  review. 

"  What  bodice  could  lie  over  that,  madame  ?  "  Hel- 
ene  inquired  contemptuously;  then,  thinking  she  had 
gone  too  far  in  her  contempt  of  Miss  Gore's  friend,  she 
added :  "  And  the  young  lady  has  good  lines  in  her 
figure,  too,  if  it  had  been  rightly  fitted." 

"  Very  good,"  said  Delia.  But  this  was  small  con- 
solation to  the  subject  of  these  criticisms,  who  felt 
as  if  she  were  being  skinned  instead  of  undressed,  and 
would  have  taken  the  first  corset  offered  to  her,  with 
scarcely  a  thought  of  how  it  fitted.  Delia,  however, 
was  not  in  a  hurry.  She  sat  back  in  her  chair,  smiling, 
and  looking  as  if  it  all  was  the  greatest  fun,  com- 
mending and  disparaging,  insisting  that  the  fitting 
was  to  be  perfect. 

"There,  now,  that  is  just  right;  we  shall  have  that 
pair,  Helene.  Now,  Miss  Jenner,  take  the  measures, 
please,"  she  said.  Miriam  drew  a  tremendous  sigh 
of  relief  when  at  last  she  was  helped  into  her  own  gar- 
ments again,  and  they  left  the  shop.  Her  cheeks  were 
burning,  tears  were  not  far  from  her  eyes. 

"  O  Miss  Gore,  that  was  terrible !  "  she  exclaimed. 
But  the  words  gave  scant  expression  to  all  she  felt. 
Delia  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  Shop  people  have  such  false  standards  about  every- 
thing," she  said.  "  I  never  know  why  we  mind  them ; 
they  only  care  whether  our  clothes  have  cost  a  certain 
amount,  or  whether  we  walk  or  come  in  a  carriage  to 

114 


TO     THE     STARS 

the  door.  Why  should  we  mind  the  opinion  of  people 
like  that?  I've  often  thought  of  inaugurating  a  So- 
ciety for  the  Elevation  of  the  Ideals  of  Shopwomen ; 
don't  you  think  it  is  needed  ?  "  So  she  tried  to  laugh 
away  her  friend's  mortification.  But  Miriam  shook 
her  head ;  this  afternoon's  work  had  been  no  laughing 
matter  to  her. 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XVII 

MR.  and  Mrs.  Courteis  were  coming  to  dinner,  and 
Miriam  had  no  evening  dress,  for,  of  course,  her  new 
garments  could  not  be  made  in  a  day.  This  question 
of  clothes  had  suddenly  assumed  a  pitiful  importance 
in  her  eyes;  she  would  have  bartered  all  her  intellec- 
tual powers,  willingly,  for  that  prosaic  article,  a  hand- 
some evening  dress !  Standing  before  the  mirror  in 
her  room,  she  gazed  at  herself  with  feelings  of  despair. 
She  tried  the  effect  of  turning  down  the  collar  of  her 
dress  to  show  her  throat,  and  decided  that  this  was 
"  wrong."  Then  she  took  out  a  locket — a  present 
from  her  mother  on  her  twentieth  birthday — and  tried 
the  effect  of  putting  it  on.  The  locket  was  large, 
coarsely  gilded,  and  had  a  star  of  worthless  pearls  in 
the  center — it  only  made  matters  worse.  Miriam 
replaced  the  locket  in  its  box,  resolutely  fastened  up 
the  collar  of  her  black  gown,  and  turned  away  from 
the  glass,  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  must,  I  shall  con- 
quer these  outside  things,"  she  thought ;  "  but,  oh, 
they  do  hurt !  " 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courteis  had  arrived  when  she  went 
downstairs.  They  were  standing  talking  with  Alan 
Gore.  Delia,  as  usual,  was  late. 

As  she  came  across  the  room  to  where  they  stood, 
Miriam  suffered  a  moment  of  acute  misery.  Tortured 
by  the  sudden  knowledge  of  her  unsuitable  clothes, 
she  would  gladly  have  fled  from  the  room  instead  of 

116 


TO     THE     STARS 

coming  forward  to  speak  to  these  people.  She  glanced 
at  Alan  Gore,  and  something  in  his  face  seemed  to 
reassure  her.  He  understood,  she  felt  sure,  all  the 
misery  she  was  enduring. 

She  pulled  herself  together  with  a  great  effort,  de- 
termined not  to  show  what  she  suffered. 

"  I  don't  think  that  you  and  Mrs.  Courteis  have 
met  ?  "  Gore  said ;  and  Miriam  found  courage  to  look 
at  Mrs.  Courteis.  The  sight  reassured  her.  This  was 
no  vision  of  fashion,  only  an  elderly  woman,  carelessly 
dressed  in  a  sloppy,  black  tea  gown  (a  garment  Miriam 
had  never  seen  before,  and  did  not  admire).  Her  hair 
was  very  untidy,  as  if  she  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to 
brush  it  before  coming  out,  and  she  gave  Miriam  a 
lackluster  stare  that  certainly  did  not  express  any 
surprise  at  her  dress. 

"  I'm  glad  to  meet  you,  Miss  Sadler,"  she  said  in 
an  apathetic  voice.  "  Mr.  Courteis  has  told  me  about 
you ;  you  know  Aunt  Geraldine,  I  think,  but  I  forget 
what  you  write." 

Miriam  breathed  more  freely;  she  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  the  criticism  of  this  woman,  who  looked 
as  if  a  costume  of  paint  and  feathers  would  scarcely 
have  surprised  her  out  of  her  apathy. 

But  the  feeling  of  relief  was  short-lived.  For  as 
as  they  sat  down  to  dinner,  Courteis  began  to  speak 
about  a  public  question  which  had,  it  appeared,  incrim- 
inated several  persons  known  to  him  and  to  the  Gores, 
but,  of  course,  unknown  to  Miriam.  The  kindest 
hosts  will  not  hold  back  from  such  a  topic  because  one 
of  their  guests  cannot  join  in  the  conversation.  Mir- 
iam must  sit  silent.  They  all  seemed  to  forget  her 

117 


THE     LADDER 

for  a  time ;  even  Mrs.  Courteis  was  roused  to  interest, 
and  had  plenty  to  say  on  the  subject.  "  If  I  could 
even  put  in  one  intelligent  word,"  she  thought;  but 
the  intelligent  word  was  not  there  to  say.  Suddenly 
Gore  paused  in  the  heat  of  the  discussion  and  turned 
toward  her. 

"  I'm  afraid  all  this  is  not  very  interesting  to  you?  " 
he  said  apologetically. 

She  wondered  for  a  moment  if  she  would  pretend 
that  it  was.  Then  she  remembered  her  resolutions 
against  pretense  of  any  kind. 

"  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  really  don't  know  what 
you  are  talking  about." 

Delia  and  Courteis  laughed,  and  Mrs.  Courteis 
turned  a  languid  eye  on  her;  she  had  not  enough 
humor  to  laugh  at  anything.  As  for  Miriam,  she 
more  nearly  cried  at  that  moment. 

"  How  tiresome  it  must  be  for  them  to  feel  they 
must  talk  about  the  few  things  I  understand,"  she 
thought.  "  And  my  subjects  are  so  terribly  limited. 
I  think  if  they  begin  to  talk  kindly  about  Hindcup,  I 
shall  begin  to  cry."  But  no  one  was  tactless  enough 
to  do  that. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  if  Herman  is  playing  anywhere 
this  week,  Mr.  Courteis  ?  "  Delia  asked.  "  We  want 
to  go  to  hear  him." 

"  Herman  ?  No,  he  isn't  playing  again  in  London ; 
he's  leaving  on  Saturday." 

"  Oh,  what  a  pity !  Miss  Sadler  has  never  heard 
him  play." 

"  The  most  individual  artist  I  know,"  Courteis  pro- 
nounced (he  was  fond  of  pronouncing  on  things  and 

118 


TO     THE     STARS 

people);  "wonderfully  individual;  almost  too  much 
so  for  my  theories  of  Art.  But  that  is  why  people  love 
him  as  they  do." 

"  Do  you  think  Art  ought  to  be  individual  ?  "  Mir- 
iam ventured  to  say. 

"  There's  a  difference  between  '  individual '  and 
'  personal/  "  Courteis  began,  in  his  laying-down-the- 
law  manner.  "  It's  personality  that  I  don't  admit ;  a 
great  snare  with  women,  Miss  Sadler ;  remember  that ; 
they  can't  keep  themselves  out  of  what  they  try  to  do. 
That  '  Treatise  on  Democracy,'  now,  was  all  mixed 
up  with  personal  feeling,  wasn't  it  ? "  He  leaned 
across  the  table,  looking  hard  at  her  as  he  spoke. 

"  Now,  why  did  Democracy  happen  to  interest  you 
so  much  ?  "  he  asked,  forgetting  surely,  as  he  asked 
the  question,  all  that  he  knew  about  the  girl,  and  her 
circumstances. 

Miriam  was  helping  herself  to  something  at  that 
moment,  and  paused,  the  spoon  lifted  in  her  hand, 
while  she  replied  steadily : 

"  Because  I  belong  to  the  so-called  lower  classes,  Mr. 
Courteis,  and  their  struggles  after  something  happier 
and  better  interest  me  more  than  anything  else  just 
now." 

The  man  who  was  holding  the  dish  toward  Miriam 
in  the  usual  automatic  way,  looked  down  at  her  sud- 
denly with  interest  and  surprise.  He  told  the  story 
afterwards  to  the  other  servants,  and  they  agreed  that 
the  new  visitor  was  astonishingly  honest,  and  a  good 
deal  to  be  respected  for  it.  Courteis,  on  his  part,  was 
rather  annoyed  by  his  own  want  of  tact  in  asking  such 
a  question.  Delia  and  Alan  Gore  only  were  unmoved. 

119 


THE     LADDER 

"  Now  I  call  this  very  interesting,"  said  Gore.  "  And 
I  must  entirely  and  flatly  disagree  with  you,  Courteis, 
and  agree  with  Miss  Sadler.  It's  the  personal  note 
you  condemn  in  the  '  Treatise  on  Democracy '  that 
makes  the  new,  valuable  quality  in  it.  We  want  ex- 
actly this — people  from  each  class  to  write  about  it 
from  the  inside — they  know." 

"  You  told  me  yourself,  the  first  day  you  met  me, 
Mr.  Courteis,"  said  Miriam,  "  that  I  must  write  about 
what  I  knew,  and  about  nothing  else."  A  little  smile 
dawned  round  the  corners  of  her  mouth ;  she  had  for- 
gotten her  miseries  of  a  short  time  ago. 

"  And  can't  you  do  that  without  being  personal  ?  " 
Courteis  asked.  He  leaned  forward,  pushing  his  des- 
sert plate  and  glasses  to  one  side,  as  if  they  intercepted 
his  view.  "  Take  any  instance — take  me,  if  you  like — 
I  know  a  vast  deal  about  the  editing  life.  I  could  sit 
down  and  write  all  about  it;  but  need  I  make  it  per- 
sonal because  I  know  it  all?  You  must  generalize 
personal  experience  before  you  get  valuable  results ;  do 
keep  that  in  mind.  Experience  is  only  the  raw  mate- 
rial that  you  have  to  manufacture  into  the  right  stuff. 
As  well  say  a  cocoon  is  worth  the  same  as  a  yard  of 
silk." 

So  the  argument  went  and  came.  Miriam  was  her- 
self again,  happy  and  interested.  After  their  guests 
had  gone,  she  came  up  to  where  Delia  and  Alan  Gore 
stood,  and  told  them  how  much  she  had  enjoyed  the 
evening :  "  Though  I  began  it  more  miserably  than 
I  can  ever  say — "  Her  voice  faltered,  and  she  added : 
"  It  was  my  dress,  you  know." 

They  both  laughed,  just  a  little,  though,  for  the  sin- 

I2O 


TO     THE     STARS 

cerity  of  pain  in  her  voice  forbade  too  much  merriment 
on  their  part. 

"  Wait  till  the  new  gowns  arrive,"  said  Delia,  "  and 
it  will  be  worth  all  you  have  suffered.  We  are  to  dine 
with  the  Courteises  on  Friday.  I  hope  they  will  have 
come  by  that  time." 


121 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

ON  Friday  the  new  gowns  came,  and  Delia  insisted 
that  Miriam's  hair  should  be  more  becomingly  ar- 
ranged before  they  were  tried  on;  but  at  this  sug- 
gestion she  blushed  hotly. 

"  O  Miss  Gore,  I  couldn't  have  your  maid  do  my 
hair ;  she  wouldn't  like  it ;  she  must  know  that  I  am  not 
a  person  who  is  accustomed  to  have  other  people  wait 
upon  me,"  she  cried.  Delia  considered  for  a  moment ; 
she  had  not  thought  of  this  difficulty.  Then  she  sud- 
denly bent  down  and  kissed  the  girl's  hot  cheek. 

"  My  dear,  will  you  let  me  do  it  for  you  ?  "  she  said 
gently ;  "  and  don't  you  think  you  might  stop  calling 
me  Miss  Gore  now?" 

Miriam  returned  the  kiss  with  lips  that  trembled. 
"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  Of  course  I  don't  mind  letting  you 
do  it,  if  you  will  be  so  very  kind — Delia." 

So  her  hair  was  well  done  for  the  first  time  in  her 
life,  and  then  the  new  gowns  were  tried  on.  She 
beheld  the  effect  of  the  morning  gown  in  silence ;  with- 
out a  word  she  divested  herself  of  it  and  donned  the 
evening  dress ;  but  to  Delia's  surprise,  as  she  led  Mir- 
iam toward  the  mirror,  she  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears. 

"  Oh,  do  you  not  like  them  ?  Have  I  made  you 
spend  your  money  for  things  you  don't  admire  ? " 
Delia  exclaimed  in  dismay,  for  Miriam  had  turned 

122 


TO     THE     STARS 

away  from  the  mirror,  and,  regardless  of  the  fine  new 
dress,  flung  herself  into  the  nearest  chair  and  sobbed. 
Delia  knelt  down  beside  her  and  took  her  hand  in  great 
distress. 

"  It's  wrong — it's  wrong  and  cruel  that  knowing 
should  make  all  the  difference !  "  Miriam  sobbed  out 
at  last.  "  Why  can't  we  all  know,  and  look  right,  and 
feel  happy  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  quite  dull,"  said  Delia  lamely. 
"  It  is  far  more  interesting  to  discover  about  things, 
isn't  it?" 

"  No,  it  is  not,"  said  Miriam  almost  roughly.  She 
rose  and  gave  herself  a  sort  of  shake,  dried  her  eyes, 
and  walked  across  to  the  mirror  again. 

"  I  look  altogether  different,"  she  said.  "  And  if 
I  had  only  known  before  what  to  buy,  and  how  to  put 
it  on,  I  might  have  been  spared  so  much !  " 

It  was  undeniable,  and  recognizing  this  Delia  went 
away  and  left  her  alone  to  get  more  acquainted  with 
her  new  appearance. 

Miriam  stood  gazing  at  her  changed  self  for  a  long 
time,  with  a  mixture  of  pain  and  pleasure;  she  was 
so  changed! 

"  I  don't  think  I  mind  Mr.  Gore  noticing,  he  is  so 
above  everything,  somehow,"  she  thought.  "  But  the 
servants  will  notice.  Oh,  how  I  hate  that  they  should 
know  that  this  is  my  first  evening  dress !  " 

Delia  came  in  again  at  that  moment  carrying  an 
opera  cloak,  which  she  insisted  that  Miriam  must 
put  on.  It  was  quite  as  painful  to  Delia  to  offer  this 
as  for  Miriam  to  accept  it ;  but  it  was  obvious  that  she 
could  not  assume  her  black  cloth  jacket  over  the  new 

123 


THE     LADDER 

dress,  so  she  put  on  the  borrowed  cloak  with  as  good 
a  grace  as  might  be,  and  they  went  downstairs  to- 
gether. Alan  Gore  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  hall ; 
Miriam  wondered  if  he  noticed  the  change  in  her  ap- 
pearance, and  felt  certain  that  if  he  did  not  the  butler 
did — which  was  undoubtedly  true.  She  gathered  up 
her  voluminous  new  skirts  with  an  unpracticed  grip, 
and  scurried  to  the  carriage. 

"  Now  we  must  all  be  as  intelligent  as  possible," 
said  Alan  Gore,  as  the  carriage  drove  off.  "  You  es- 
pecially, Miss  Sadler,  must  be  on  your  mettle ;  you're 
on  approval  for  The  Advance  Guard,  remember." 

He  leaned  back  in  the  carriage  and  looked  at  her 
with  an  amused  expression,  which  Miriam  at  once 
construed  into  surprise  at  her  changed  appearance. 
He  was,  after  all,  as  she  grudgingly  admitted  to  her- 
self at  that  moment,  just  a  young  man,  like  any  other ; 
not  too  kind  to  notice  her  embarrassment,  and  be  a 
little  amused  at  it.  Till  now,  she  had  put  Alan  Gore 
so  apart  from  the  rest  of  the  world  in  her  admiring 
thoughts  that  she  had  never  considered  him  in  this 
light  at  all.  It  quite  startled  her  to  do  so. 

"  He  will  love  some  woman  and  marry  her,"  she 
thought.  "  What  would  it  be  like  to  be  honored  by 
the  love  of  a  man  like  him?  Yet,  doubtless,  the  world 
contained  even  then  the  woman  who  was  destined  for 
this  honor." 

"  A  penny  for  your  thoughts !  "  said  Delia,  and  Mir- 
iam told  a  direct  lie. 

"  I  am  keeping  all  my  thoughts  for  Mr.  Courteis ; 
I  have  none  to  spare,"  she  answered. 

"  I  always  think  Courteis  has  such  an  interesting 
124 


TO     THE     STARS 

house,"  said  Gore ;  "  as  if  all  manner  of  stories  looked 
out  of  the  windows." 

"  All  the  remarkable  people  who  have  gone  in  and 
out  of  it  have  left  a  spiritual  presence  behind  them," 
said  Delia,  laughing.  "  See,  here  we  are — rather 
grubby  7  call  it,  with  these  small  windows ! " 

As  Miriam  got  out  and  went  up  the  steps,  she 
turned  quickly  and  nodded  to  Alan  Gore : 

"  I  see,  I  see  just  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 
"  Things  have  happened  here ;  I  should  expect  things 
to  happen  here  again." 

"  You  see,  Delia,  you  alone  have  no  imagination. 
Miss  Sadler  and  I  know  all  about  this  house ! "  said 
Alan.  They  were  shown  into  the  drawing-room,  which 
was  dark,  and  shabbily  furnished.  The  old  Turkey 
carpet  was  worn  almost  threadbare ;  but  the  walls  were 
lined  with  bookcases,  and  this  made  the  room  home- 
like. Mrs.  Courteis  gave  them  a  listless  greeting. 

"  I'll  give  you  a  seat  opposite  my  new  picture," 
Courteis  said  to  Miriam.  "  Tell  me  what  you  think 
of  it." 

She  looked  in  the  direction  he  indicated,  then  sud- 
denly rose,  half-startled,  resting  her  hand  on  the  arm 
of  her  chair. 

"  Oh,  who  is  it,  Mr.  Courteis  ?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I 
think  I  wish  to  get  away  from  him." 

"There!  isn't  that  a  compliment  to  the  painter?" 
said  Courteis.  "  Why,  that's  Herman,  of  course.  I 
forgot  you  had  never  seen  him.  Well,  there  he  is; 
don't  the  eyes  follow  you  about  the  room  ?  " 

Yes,  Miriam  thought,  they  did.  She  actually  edged 
her  chair  round  as  if  to  avoid  them,  and  then  turned 
9  125 


THE     LADDER 

back  again  to  look.  The  picture  represented  a  very 
young  man  with  a  sweet,  boyish  mouth  and  terrible 
eyes.  As  she  looked  at  it,  Miriam  instinctively  drew 
back  and  pressed  her  fingers  against  her  own  eyes,  as 
if  she  had  seen  something  too  brilliant  for  them. 

"  Very  good ;  a  great  deal  of  chic  about  it,  isn't 
there  ?  "  said  Courteis  to  Alan  Gore.  "  He  sent  it  to 
me  last  week ;  it's  the  work  of  that  new  French  painter, 
Larame ;  excellent,  I  call  it." 

"  Why  does  he  look  like  that  ?  "  Miriam  asked. 

"  Because  he  is  Herman,  and  there  is  none  other 
beside  him ;  that's  all  the  reason  I  can  give  you  for  his 
looks,"  said  Courteis.  "  You'll  find  that  people  of  very 
exceptional  talent  generally  look  unlike  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

The  random  remark  sent  a  pang  to  Miriam's  heart ; 
not  that  she  considered  herself  a  person  of  exceptional 
talent,  but  she  thought  how  unlike  those  other  people 
she  must  have  looked  before  she  got  into  the  ordinary 
garb  of  their  world.  Her  self-consciousness  came 
back  fourfold,  and  once  again  she  writhed  under  the 
sense  of  her  own  deficiencies. 

When  they  went  down  to  dinner,  Miriam  made  the 
usual  mistake  of  all  young  sailors  on  the  sea  of  life: 
she  tried  to  make  interesting  and  clever  talk,  instead 
of  waiting  and  letting  her  remarks  come  of  themselves. 
Of  course  she  did  not  talk  well,  and  then,  overcome 
with  mortification,  she  became  entirely  silent. 

"  I  can't  talk  either  their  talk  or  my  own,"  she  told 
herself  in  despair.  However,  it  is  very  often  only 
after  we  have  confessed  defeat  that  we  rise  to  conquer. 
Miriam  gave  up  the  attempt  to  speak  cleverly,  and  be- 

126 


TO     THE     STARS 

fore  she  was  aware  of  it,  constraint  had  vanished  and 
she  was  talking  her  best.  Hers,  as  you  may  imagine, 
was  not  talk  of  the  kind  which  is  fatally  easy  among 
people  of  a  certain  amount  of  cleverness  and  cultiva- 
tion— lightly  speculative  in  tone,  and  helped  out  by 
apposite  quotations  from  modern  writers.  Of  this  sort 
of  talk  Miriam  was  entirely  innocent.  All  that  she  said 
was  the  result  of  her  own  first-hand  observation  and 
reflection;  she  had  not  read  enough  to  quote  other 
people's  ideas  readily  to  her  own  destruction.  Cour- 
teis  was  delighted.  Fresh  "  brain-stuff,"  as  he  called 
it,  was  the  material  he  was  most  anxious  to  secure 
for  his  magazine,  and  he  found  it  woefully  difficult  to 
do  so.  But  here  was  a  young  woman  singularly  un- 
touched as  yet  by  the  paralyzing  finger  of  culture; 
would  it  be  possible,  he  wondered,  to  get  her  to  write 
a  good  style  without  spoiling  this  freshness  of  out- 
look? Uncultivated  writing  he  could  not  endure  for 
a  moment;  but  how  was  this  delightful  freshness  to 
be  retained  and  cultivation  added?  It  was  a  problem. 

When  dinner  was  over,  Courteis  led  them  into  his 
study,  ostensibly  to  see  some  books.  After  these  had 
been  admired  he  took  up  another  large  volume  that 
lay  on  his  desk,  and  handed  it  to  Miriam. 

"  See,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  you  to  try 
something.  Look  at  this  book — pretty  stiff  reading, 
and  a  lot  of  it.  Will  you  take  it  home  with  you  and 
write  out  an  abstract  of  it,  chapter  by  chapter,  using 
the  simplest,  most  lucid  words  you  know  to  express 
what  you  find  in  it?  Then,  when  you  have  done  this, 
will  you  write  an  abstract  of  the  whole,  condensed  as 
much  as  possible,  and  send  it  to  me  ?  Perhaps  it  won't 

127 


THE     LADDER 

do.  Perhaps  it  will.  In  any  case,  your  work  won't 
be  lost ;  you  will  find  you  have  gained  an  immense  deal 
by  the  time  the  thing  is  finished.  Will  you  try  ?  " 

"  What  would  I  gain  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Lucidity,  concentration  of  ideas,  power  of  work. 
You  won't  regret  it,  I  tell  you." 

Miriam  lifted  the  big  book  and  turned  over  the 
pages,  reading  a  sentence  here  and  there.  Then  she 
laid  it  down. 

"  Yes,  I  will  try.    How  long  may  I  take?  " 

"  Oh,  I  won't  bind  you  down ;  your  own  time,  as 
you  are  a  beginner." 

Gore  had  been  standing  beside  them,  listening  with 
frank  interest  to  all  they  said. 

"  Now,  then,  there's  a  job  for  you !  "  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  Miriam. 

"  Beautiful !  "  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  and  both  the 
men  laughed. 

"  She  has  the  enthusiasm  of  the  beginner  for  work," 
said  Courteis.  "  Wait  until  she  has  been  in  harness 
a  little  longer." 

The  girl  turned  her  large,  somber  eyes  upon  him 
in  surprise. 

"Are  you  not  fond  of  work,  Mr.  Courteis?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  love  it  and  loathe  it  by  turns.  It's  as  neces- 
sary as  daily  bread,  of  course;  but  have  you  never 
loathed  your  food  ?  " 

"  Never,  when  I  am  well,"  she  answered  gravely. 

"  That's  about  it ;  but  one  sometimes  has  a  sick 
mind,  you  know,  or  will  know  when  you  are  older 
and  sadder." 

128 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  It's  a  very  grave  symptom,  indeed,  when  work 
becomes  loathsome,"  said  Gore. 

"  Yes,  the  man  who  loathes  his  work  had  better  go 
down  on  his  knees;  he's  past  helping  himself,"  said 
Courteis.  He  turned  away  as  he  spoke,  and  began  to 
arrange  the  books  he  had  taken  down  from  the  shelves. 
Miriam  carried  the  big  volume  back  into  the  drawing- 
room  with  her,  to  show  it  to  Delia,  nor  would  she  be 
parted  from  it,  but  insisted  on  taking  it  back  that  night 
herself,  instead  of  letting  Courteis  send  it  to  her.  In 
the  darkness,  as  they  drove  home,  she  held  it  against 
her  thumping  heart,  as  tenderly  as  a  mother  holds  her 
first  baby  to  the  breast. 

"  At  last,  at  last ;  something  tangible  to  try,"  she 
said  to  herself. 

Oh,  effort,  effort !    The  staff,  the  hope  of  our  race ! 


129 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XIX 

BEFORE  Miriam  had  been  ten  days  in  their  house, 
she  had  lost  all  feeling  of  constraint  and  shyness  with 
both  Delia  and  Alan  Gore.  They  had  that  sympathetic 
quality  which  is  the  most  charming  characteristic  that 
man  or  woman  can  possess,  and  she  found  herself  tell- 
ing them  all  the  petty  details  of  her  life.  They  seemed 
never  to  tire  of  her  judicious  descriptions  of  pro- 
vincial society. 

"  Don't  ask  me  more  about  my  stupid  life  in  stupid 
Hindcup,"  she  would  say,  and  then  Delia  would  as- 
sure her  that  it  was  infinitely  more  amusing  than  or- 
dinary society  life.  Alan  Gore  was  particularly  fond 
of  her  accounts  of  conversation  in  Hindcup. 

"  Tell  me  again  of  the  young  man  who  will  never 
speak  of  anything  but  hydropathics  or  photography," 
he  would  say ;  and,  with  a  certain  acid  pleasure  in  the 
task,  she  would  reproduce  some  of  Dr.  Pratt's  con- 
versational tragedies.  Miriam  was  not  a  vindictive 
woman,  but  she  had  been  laughed  at  and  despised  by 
the  natives  of  Hindcup  for  years,  so  it  was  perhaps 
natural  that  she  should  take  a  little  revenge  now. 

"  Now,  do  Mrs.  Hobbes  on  '  girls/  "  Delia  would 
plead.  "  I'm  so  pleased  with  the  term,  I  shall  never 
call  my  servants  anything  else  now." 

Miriam  would  comply  with  the  request;  but  while 
her  audience  swayed  with  laughter,  her  own  heart  felt 

130 


TO     THE     STARS 

heavy  enough.  For,  after  all,  this  society  she  made 
fun  of  was  her  society,  her  real  sphere,  and  this  happy 
world  where  she  now  found  herself,  only  an  unreal, 
delicious  phase  of  existence. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  do  it  any  more.  I  won't  tell  you 
once  again  about  Mrs.  Hobbes  and  her  '  girls,'  or  Dr. 
Pratt  on  Photography,  or  Aunt  Pillar  on  servants' 
allowances.  I  shall  be  back  among  them  all  so  soon," 
she  said  at  last. 

"  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Province,"  said  Gore,  laugh- 
ing. "  You  must  begin  a  new  Balzacian  series."  He 
brought  her  a  bundle  of  Balzac  next  day,  and  com- 
mended them  to  her  attention.  "  That's  what  one 
mind  made  out  of  the  provinces,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  new  and  wonderful  feeling  to  Miriam,  this 
of  having  people  interested  in  her.  For  so  long  the 
ugly  duckling  of  her  family,  she  had  quite  come  to 
think  of  herself  as  nothing  else.  Now  her  opinion  was 
treated  with  respect,  and  what  was  far  more  subtly 
flattering,  she  felt  herself  interesting  to  the  people  in 
the  world  she  would  have  most  longed  to  interest.  She 
began  to  believe  in  herself,  with  a  sort  of  trembling 
incredulity ;  perhaps  after  all  she  was  not  such  a  poor 
creature  as  they  thought  her  in  Hindcup! 

The  lonely  soul,  on  first  finding  itself  understood, 
experiences  a  peculiar  and  exquisite  rapture.  The 
whole  world  of  sense  seems  to  acquire  a  new  reality 
and  vividness  for  it.  "  I  am  born  again,"  it  says,  and 
rightly ;  for  with  appreciation  every  faculty  is  bright- 
ened and  strengthened;  half-dormant  characteristics 
are  roused  into  activity;  the  whole  being  grows  and 
blossoms  out. 


THE     LADDER 

In  the  company  of  these  two  people  who  believed 
in  and  understood  her,  you  would  never  have  recog- 
nized the  Miriam  Sadler  of  Hindcup.  She  drank  in 
their  talk  and  their  ideas,  as  the  thirsty  ground  drinks 
in  the  rain.  But  her  position  was  not  only  that  of 
a  receiver;  her  contributions  to  the  talk  that  went  on 
were  really  the  valuable  part  of  it,  for  it  was  she  who 
always  started  the  topics — and  a  good  topic  for  con- 
versation is  as  important  as  a  fox  for  a  hunt.  Know- 
ing her  own  ignorance,  she  always  put  her  ideas  in  the 
form  of  a  question,  and  she  would  start  an  argument 
thus: 

"  Do  you  think,  Mr.  Gore,  that  all  the  Arts  are 
transferable ;  that  everything  expressed  in  painting 
might  be  expressed  in  music  or  in  words  ?  Or  do  you 
think  that  there  are  some  phases  of  feeling  that  can 
only  be  expressed  by  one  of  the  Arts,  some  by 
another  ?  " 

And  then  Gore  would  discuss  the  whole  question 
with  her  in  his  kind,  interested  way.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  describe  the  joy  these  conversations  were 
to  Miriam,  or  how  much  she  gained  by  intercourse 
for  the  first  time  with  a  man  of  powerful  intellect  and 
cultivation.  If  Gore  could  not  answer  questions,  he 
would  frankly  admit  his  inability  to  do  so;  but  when 
they  had  talked  the  question  over,  it  was  always, 
somehow  or  other,  robbed  of  its  stark  terrors.  Miriam, 
like  most  young  people,  had  tormented  herself  with 
theological  problems.  The  unintelligent  religiosity  of 
her  mother  and  Mr.  Hobbes  had  been  the  worst  pos- 
sible influence  in  this  direction,  and  she  had  despaired 
of  comfort.  Now,  with  the  sudden  overwhelming  re- 

132 


TO     THE     STARS 

lief  that  a  frightened  .child  feels  when  it  can  sob  out 
its  terrors  to  some  older  person,  she  found  herself  tell- 
ing Alan  Gore  all  these  fears  and  scruples.  They  were 
not  at  all  extraordinary ;  nor  were  his  suggestions  for 
their  allaying  extraordinary  either;  but  they  seemed 
so  to  Miriam.  This  man,  whom  Mrs.  Sadler  had 
somewhat  rashly  labeled  a  freethinker,  appeared  to 
her  daughter  almost  in  the  light  of  a  divinity.  That 
he  was  a  man  like  other  men,  with  faults  and  weak- 
nesses, she  could  scarcely  believe;  and  yet  Delia  as- 
sured her  that  this  was  the  case. 

"  Alan  is  all  very  well,"  she  said,  with  the  awful 
uncompromising  knowledge  of  a  sister ;  "  but,  of 
course,  he  is  far  from  an  angel." 

It  was  late  one  night,  or  rather  very  early  one  morn- 
ing, that  Miriam  woke  up  to  a  sudden  realization  of 
her  own  feelings. 

"  Oh,  I  am  making  a  mistake ! "  she  cried  aloud, 
sitting  up  in  bed,  and  stretching  out  her  hands,  as  if 
toward  some  unseen  helper.  The  sound  of  her  own 
voice  speaking  in  the  dark  frightened  her,  and  she 
lay  down  again,  wide-eyed,  staring  into  the  darkness, 
staring  into  the  future,  into  what  might  come  to  her. 
That  arch  fear  which  eclipses  every  other  had  as- 
sailed her;  she  was  afraid  of  herself. 

"  Am  I  going  to  ruin  my  life,  such  as  it  is  ?  "  she 
asked  herself.  "  Is  the  whole  world  after  this  going 
to  be  empty  and  worthless  to  me  ?  Oh,  surely  not !  " 
And  then  unflinchingly  she  set  herself  to  face  the 
truth.  She  was  no  more  to  Alan  Gore  than  any  other 
acquaintance ;  he  had  been  very  kind  to  her,  as  he  was 
to  everyone,  that  was  all.  Then  surely  she  had  enough 

133 


THE     LADDER 

pride  and  self-respect  to  keep  herself  from  loving  him. 
That  was  the  situation — no  more  or  less. 

With  one  of  those  magnificent  rallies  of  pride  which 
are  in  women  the  equivalent  of  men's  valor,  Miriam 
gathered  all  the  strength  of  her  nature  to  her  aid. 

"  Love  a  man  who  does  not  love  me  ?  Never,  never, 
never !  "  she  cried  in  her  heart ;  and  then  with  clasped 
hands  she  prayed  in  an  agonized  whisper,  "  O  God, 
help  me  not  to  make  a  fool  of  myself!  help  me, 
help  me !  " 

It  was  not  a  very  conventional  prayer ;  but,  indeed, 
it  came  from  the  heart. 

"  I'll  fight  every  inch  of  the  way,"  she  said  to  her- 
self. "  I'll  not  give  in,  not  if  it  kills  me.  I'll  make  an 
excuse  and  leave  here,  and  see  no  more  of  him.  I'll 
get  books  from  Mr.  Courteis.  I'll  not  think  about  him, 
nor  try  to  hear  of  him." 

She  made  herself  look  at  the  case  as  it  would  seem 
from  the  outside — the  pitiable  absurdity  of  Miriam 
Sadler,  Aunt  Pillar's  niece,  loving  Mr.  Alan  Gore! 
The  thought  stung  her  and  helped  her.  She  recog- 
nized the  value  of  this  treatment,  and  pursued  it ;  she 
was  almost  laughing  at  herself.  Persons  of  romantic 
tendency  will  think  worse  of  Miriam  for  thus  rejecting 
"  the  celestial  crown  " ;  but  perhaps  she  gained  an- 
other, even  if  not  such  a  bright  one. 

It  took  her  a  long  time  to  come  to  these  painful  con- 
clusions. All  the  night  through  she  lay  awake,  and 
the  first  carts  had  begun  to  rumble  past  in  the  streets 
before  she  had  finally  decided  upon  her  course  of 
action.  It  would  not  do  to  propose  to  go  home 
abruptly,  she  must  suggest  it  gradually.  The  end  of 

134 


TO     THE     STARS 

the  week  must  be  the  conclusion  of  her  long  visit.  At 
last,  having  decided  this  date,  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  came  down  to  breakfast,  a  letter  from 
home  lay  beside  her  plate. 

"  Do  read  your  letter,"  Delia  said,  and  Miriam 
opened  the  envelope.  The  communication  it  contained 
was  neither  interesting  nor  dramatic;  but  Fate  often 
speaks  in  a  rough  tongue,  and  this  unromantic  letter 
decided  the  date  of  her  home-going.  In  her  usual  un- 
mitigated style  Mrs.  Sadler  wrote : 

DEAR  MIRIAM: 

I  have  had  one  of  my  bad  attacks  of  the  bile,  and  have  been 
in  bed  for  the  last  three  days.  Nothing  will  lie  on  my  stomach. 
I  think  you  must  come  home  and  look  after  me. 

"  Mother  is  ill,"  Miriam  said,  turning  to  Delia. 
"  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  home  immediately." 

Alan  Gore  laid  down  the  bundle  of  letters  he  was 
opening,  and  addressed  her  with  that  quickness  of  in- 
terest that  was  his  great  charm. 

"  Why,  how  unfortunate !  I  hope  that  there's  noth- 
ing seriously  wrong?  " 

"  No,"  she  said ;  "  only  biliousness,  but  it  means  my 
going  home  just  as  surely  as  apoplexy." 

They  laughed  at  her  solemn  speech;  but  Delia  was 
much  annoyed. 

"  There  are  so  many  things  we  wanted  you  to  do 
and  see.  Well,  you  must  come  again  soon,"  she 
said. 

"  It  will  never  be  the  same,"  said  Miriam.  She 
knew  in  her  heart,  though  she  could  not  say  so  to 
them,  that  everything  would  be  different  because  she 

135 


THE     LADDER 

herself  would  be  changed.  But  her  friends  would 
not  admit  that  things  would  alter,  and  made  all  man- 
ner of  delightful  schemes  for  "  the  next  time,"  to 
which  she  listened  with  a  grave  smile  on  her  lips,  a 
smile  that  did  not  mean  cheerfulness. 

"  Why,  the  next  time  you  will  be  well  known  I 
hope,"  Gore  said.  "  You  are  going  home  to  write  all 
manner  of  remarkable  things  for  our  friend  Courteis. 
Your  next  visit  to  us  should  be  much  more  interesting 
than  this  has  been." 

Miriam  listened,  and  shook  her  head.  Then  she 
turned  to  the  consideration  of  her  journey. 

"  I  must  go  home  to-day,  I'm  afraid,"  she  said.  Alan 
Gore  brought  out  a  railway  guide  and  began  to  turn 
over  its  mysterious  pages  in  search  of  the  Hindcup 
trains. 

"When  do  you  wish  to  arrive?"  he  asked.  The 
question  seemed  to  bring  home  to  her  the  reality  of  her 
departure;  she  winced  as  if  some  one  had  struck  her 
a  blow. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  wish  to  reach  it  at  all,  but  I 
think  I  should  go  as  soon  as  possible,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  there's  a  train  at  half-past  eleven ;  will 
that  do?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  bluntly ;  there  seemed  nothing 
more  to  say. 

"  I'm  so  sorry  I  can't  go  down  to  the  station  with 
you,"  said  Delia.  "  I've  some  one  coming  to  see  me 
at  eleven." 

"  Oh,  I  can  see  myself  off,"  said  Miriam.  Gore 
rose  and  gathered  up  his  letters  from  the  table. 

"  I  must  go  now,"  he  said,  "  so  I'll  say  good-by, 
136 


Miss  Sadler.  Good-by,  and  all  manner  of  luck — no, 
not  luck,  success  in  your  efforts." 

Miriam  took  his  hand.  She  would  have  liked  to 
look  straight  into  his  kind,  clever  eyes,  but  she  could 
not. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  and  he  was  gone.  Delia  fol- 
lowed her  upstairs,  and  sat  down  in  her  room  while 
she  packed  the  yellow  tin  trunk. 

"  There  go  the  poor,  despised  old  frocks,"  Delia 
said.  "  Why,  I  wouldn't  crush  them  like  that  if  I 
were  you ;  you  will  probably  want  to  wear  them  again 
at  Hindcup." 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  I  shall  relapse  into  the  primordial 
slime  whence  I  arose,"  Miriam  said,  trying  to  speak 
lightly,  but  the  bitterness  she  felt  broke  through  in 
her  voice.  Delia  rose  and  came  across  to  where  the 
girl  stood,  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Don't  speak  that  way,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  You'll 
never  relapse,  believe  me ;  you'll  go  on  and  on." 

But  at  these  kind  words  Miriam  broke  down. 

"  It's  no  use  pretending  to  be  happy ;  I'm  miserable, 
and  everything  at  home  seems  horrible,"  she  sobbed. 

Delia  was  much  too  uncompromising  to  attempt  the 
usual  methods  of  comfort.  She  made  Miriam  sit  down 
beside  her,  and  taking  her  hand,  began  to  try  to  dis- 
cover what  she  was  feeling  so  miserable  about. 

"  Do  you  feel  as  if  it  had  been  a  mistake,  your  com- 
ing here  ?  "  she  asked ;  "  please  answer  me  straight  out 
what  you  feel.  I'd  rather  know  the  truth,  for  it  was 
my  fault,  if  the  mistake  was  made." 

This  was  a  difficult  question  for  Miriam  to  answer. 
She  sat  looking  down  at  the  floor  in  silence. 

137 


THE     LADDER 

"  No,  I  am  glad  I  came,"  she  said  at  last — "  very 
glad.  I  think  I  see  quite  a  different  horizon  all  round 
me.  It's  only  painful  to  think  of  going  back  to  the 
more  limited  one ;  how  painful,  you  can  never  know." 

"  I  don't  suppose  I  can,"  Delia  admitted. 

"  I  seem  to  have  learned  such  a  number  of 
things " 

"  Well,  you  look  quite  different ;  they  won't  know 
you  at  home,"  said  Delia,  thinking  she  referred  to  her 
initiation  in  dress. 

But  Miriam  shook  her  head. 

"  If  you  knew  how  little  that  seems  to  me  com- 
pared with  other  things !  "  she  said.  She  might  have 
explained  further,  but  her  cab  was  announced  at  that 
moment,  and  the  remainder  of  her  packing  had  to  be 
hurried. 

Delia  came  down  to  the  door  with  her,  and  standing 
on  the  steps  in  the  bright  morning  sunshine,  they  said 
good-by  to  each  other. 


138 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XX 

WHEN  Miriam  reached  the  station,  she  found  there 
was  some  time  before  the  train  left.  The  platform 
was  sparsely  dotted  as  yet  with  passengers  and  their 
luggage,  and  after  the  modest  yellow  trunk  had  been 
labeled  for  Hindcup,  she  walked  slowly  up  to  the  far 
end  of  the  platform. 

To  her  surprise  she  saw  that  two  familiar  figures 
from  her  Hindcup  world  were  there  also — her  cousin, 
Mrs.  Broadman,  and  young  Dr.  Pratt.  They,  too,  had 
caught  sight  of  her,  and  with  an  exclamation  of  sur- 
prise, Maggie  came  up  to  speak  to  her  cousin. 

"  Why,  I  didn't  know  you  for  a  minute !  "  she  ex- 
claimed, passing  Miriam's  clothes  in  a  rapid  review 
as  she  spoke. 

"  I  never  saw  a  girl  more  changed  in  such  a  short 
time ;  wherever  did  you  get  these  clothes  ?  They're  too 
plain,  somehow.  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming 
home  so  soon.  I've  been  at  Maida  Vale  stopping  with 
Cousin  May,  so  I'm  not  up  to  home  news.  I  did  hear 
your  mother  had  been  ill,  but  I  never  supposed  you 
would  come  home  for  that.  Really,  you're  quite  al- 
tered, somehow  !  How  long  is  it  that  you've  been  with 
these  swell  people  ? — I  forget." 

She  rattled  on,  giving  Miriam  no  opportunity  to 
make  a  reply  to  the  numerous  questions. 

"  Here's  Dr.  Pratt,  too,"  Maggie  pursued,  as  the 
young  man  came  up  to  inquire,  with  an  elaborate  bow 

139 


THE     LADDER 

and  handshake,  how  Miss  Sadler  had  enjoyed  her  time 
in  London. 

"  I  have  enjoyed  it  very  much,"  she  answered ;  but 
her  tone  was  not  encouraging.  She  did  not  wish  to  dis- 
cuss her  visit  with  him.  Dr.  Pratt,  however,  prided 
himself  on  his  conversational  powers,  so  he  went  on: 

"  I  suppose  you  have  visited  a  number  of  theaters  ? 
'  Done  them '  is,  I  believe,  the  proper  expression  just 
now,  if  one  wishes  to  be  up-to-date." 

"  I  did  go  once  or  twice,"  Miriam  admitted. 

"  I  daresay  you  have  plenty  to  tell  us,  that's  to  say, 
if  you  will  tell  us,"  said  Maggie.  "  But  perhaps  we're 
scarcely  fine  enough  for  you  now.  Come,  doctor,  we 
had  better  get  into  this  carriage  by  ourselves ;  my 
cousin  seems  to  wish  to  be  alone." 

"  O  Maggie,  don't.  I  don't  wish  to  be  alone,"  Mir- 
iam exclaimed,  though  aware  that  she  was  saying  what 
was  decidedly  untrue. 

"  Well,  come  in  here.  Here's  an  empty  '  second,'  " 
said  Maggie.  "  Mr.  Broadman  is  always  wishing  me  to 
travel  '  first/  but,  as  I  say  to  him,  if  I  travel  '  second  ' 
I  save  a  good  deal,  and  yet  it  makes  a  difference  from 
going  with  common  people,  so  I  always  do  it.  I  sup- 
pose you  do  the  same,  Miriam,  only  the  common  peo- 
ple come  down  '  third  '  to  Hindcup." 

"  Then  I  am  one  of  them,"  said  Miriam  gleefully, 
exhibiting  her  third-class  ticket.  But  Maggie  Broad- 
man was  not  going  to  be  disgraced  by  her  cousin.  She 
pulled  out  a  fat  morocco  purse  with  a  silver  monogram 
on  the  back,  and  handed  it  to  the  attendant  Dr.  Pratt. 

"  See,  doctor,"  she  said.  "  Will  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  see  about  changing  my  cousin's  ticket?  I'll  pay  the 

140 


TO     THE     STARS 

difference."  She  liked  to  show  that  money  was  no 
object  to  her. 

Miriam  resigned  herself  to  her  fate,  and  entered 
the  second-class  carriage  along  with  her  cousin.  She 
leaned  back  into  the  window-corner,  looking  listlessly 
out  at  the  people  passing  by.  Suddenly  her  heart 
seemed  to  stop  beating,  for,  in  the  distance,  she  saw 
Alan  Gore  coming  slowly  along  the  platform,  looking 
into  each  carriage  he  passed.  Her  first  impulse  was 
to  cower  back  into  the  darkest  corner  of  the  carriage 
and  try  to  escape  his  notice,  then  she  named  herself  a 
coward  and  leaned  forward  instead  as  he  approached. 

"  Ah,  there  you  are !  "  he  said,  pausing  at  the  car- 
riage door.  "  I  brought  you  some  books  to  while  away 
the  hours  with.  Are  you  all  right?  Your  luggage 
labeled?" 

Miriam  received  the  books,  almost  dumb  with  pleas- 
ure at  the  gift. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I'm  all  right.  I  have  met  my 
cousin,  Mrs.  Broadman,"  she  added,  indicating  who 
her  companion  was.  Maggie  leaned  forward,  well 
pleased  to  join  in  the  conversation.  She  prided  her- 
self on  what  she  considered  her  irresistibly  arch  man- 
ners toward  the  other  sex;  often  she  had  reproved 
Miriam  for  her  "  dull  ways  with  the  men."  So  she 
rallied  Alan  Gore  brightly  on  having  given  Miriam 
more  books. 

"  My  cousin's  really  too  much  taken  up  with  books 
already,"  she  said.  "  I  always  tell  her  a  young  lady 
should  have  other  interests — well,  more  natural  ones. 
Before  I  married,  now,  nothing  interested  me  so  much 
as  a  dance,  and  a  new  dress,  and  perhaps  the  young 
10  141 


THE     LADDER 

gentlemen  I  met  in  the  evening;  but  Miriam  here  is 
so  learned,  she  never  seems  to  care  about  these  things 
— at  least,  she  never  did  in  Hindcup.  Perhaps  you 
have  taught  her  more  in  London." 

Miriam's  sufferings  during  this  speech  were  very 
grievous.  She  leant  back  into  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage and  flushed  painfully.  Alan  Gore  looked  down 
at  his  boots  with  a  very  noncommittal  expression  for 
a  minute. 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  share  that  feeling  against  books 
with  you,"  he  said  then.  "  I  don't  see  why  they  should 
confuse  the  natural  interests  of  life  in  the  least."  He 
looked  up  at  Maggie  Broadman  as  he  spoke,  with  his 
keen,  frank  glance  that  seemed  to  measure  her  capaci- 
ties as  a  pair  of  scales  measures  defective  weights 
of  sugar. 

Maggie  was  struck  with  a  sudden  dumbness ;  the 
abstract  was  not  her  vein.  She  sat  back  into  the  cor- 
ner and  remarked  that  it  was  very  warm.  Dr.  Pratt 
appeared  then  to  return  Mrs.  Broadman's  purse.  He 
carried  a  bunch  of  comic  papers.  Gore  stood  aside 
to  let  him  get  in,  and  then  held  out  his  hand  to  Miriam. 

"  Good-by ;  I'm  glad  you  have  some  one  to  look  after 
you,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  into  the  crowd.  For 
one  awful  moment  Miriam  thought  that  she  was  going 
to  cry.  Tears  welled  up  in  her  eyes,  her  throat  ached, 
and  she  could  not  speak.  Maggie  and  Dr.  Pratt  were 
gazing  at  her. 

"  So  that's  Mr.  Gore !  I  should  have  known  him, 
too,  for  I  saw  him  at  the  fete  at  the  Manor.  It  was 
very  polite  of  him  coming  to  see  you  off  that  way, 
Miriam ;  very  polite.  I  felt  a  little  de  trap,  really." 

142 


TO     THE     STARS 

Maggie  tried  to  look  archly  suggestive,  and  Dr. 
Pratt  said: 

"  Yes ;  when  a  gentleman  comes  to  see  a  young  lady 
off  on  a  train,  he  generally  calculates  on  finding  her 
alone." 

Their  words  stung  Miriam  like  a  whip.  It  was  the 
best  thing  that  could  have  happened,  for  she  was  so 
angry  that  she  forgot  to  cry. 

"  Oh,  you  needn't  have  troubled  yourself  with  feel- 
ings like  that,"  she  said  hotly.  Mrs.  Broadman  smiled, 
and  Dr.  Pratt  began  to  read  his  papers.  He  was,  in 
some  respects,  a  good-looking  man,  with  well-cut 
features  and  curly  hair ;  but  Miriam  seemed  to-day  to 
see  nothing  but  faults  in  him.  She  wondered  why  he 
wore  a  ring  on  his  thick  finger,  and  why  he  scented 
himself  with  musk.  Yet  Dr.  Pratt  was  a  good-natured 
young  man,  not  at  all  stupid  in  his  profession,  and  the 
adored  of  her  cousin,  Emmie  Pillar.  Miriam  sat  look- 
ing at  him,  and  wondering  why  Emmie  liked  him. 

When  the  train  moved  out  of  the  station,  Maggie 
Broadman  opened  a  fashion  paper,  and  Miriam  was  at 
liberty  to  look  at  the  books  Alan  Gore  had  brought 
her.  And  even  to  do  this,  to  look  at  them,  feel  them, 
turn  over  their  pages,  seemed  to  soothe  and  cheer  her. 
Here  was  a  kingdom  that  she  might  enter  undismayed, 
the  grandest,  widest  kingdom  of  the  world,  the  realm 
of  thought.  Here  beauty  dwelt,  and  such  measure  of 
truth  as  we  may  know,  and  peace  from  all  the  petty 
irk  of  living. 

She  did  not  read  much;  but  she  sat  holding  the 
books  all  the  way  to  Hindcup,  and  the  journey,  after 
all,  was  not  an  unhappy  one. 

143 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER    XXI 

MIRIAM  found  her  mother  in  bed  and  very  sick  and 
sorry  when  she  arrived  at  home. 

The  "  girl "  had  reduced  the  kitchen  to  a  state  of 
melancholy  untidiness,  and  was,  after  the  manner  of 
her  kind,  smeared  to  the  eyes  with  black-lead,  though 
not  a  grate  in  the  house  seemed  to  have  been  polished. 
The  only  food  to  be  found  in  the  larder  was  cold  beef- 
steak ;  of  this  there  was  a  large  amount  lying  on  a 
dish,  surrounded  by  cold,  watery  gravy  coated  with 
grease.  There  seemed  everything  to  do. 

But  there  are  worse  predicaments  in  life  than  finding 
everything  to  do.  Miriam  felt  almost  thankful  for  the 
confusion  that  reigned  in  the  house.  It  seemed  natu- 
ral to  take  off  her  London  dress,  reassume  the  prune 
merino  and  an  apron,  and  begin  to  put  everything  to 
rights.  All  her  ideas  had  undergone  a  profound 
change  in  the  three  weeks  she  had  been  away  from 
home.  Instead  of  thinking  more  of  luxury  and  beauty 
of  surroundings,  she  had  come  to  think  much  less  of 
them ;  she  had  begun  to  realize  that  what  lies  behind 
beauty  and  luxury  and  creates  them,  is  of  infinitely 
more  importance  than  they  are.  As  she  sat  down  at 
last  in  the  woefully  ugly  little  parlor,  now  tidied  up  and 
dusted,  Miriam  said  to  herself  that  even  this  hideous- 
ness  did  not  much  matter  if  she  could  live  the  right 
kind  of  life  among  it.  But  these  abstractions  were 

144 


TO     THE     STARS 

broken  in  upon  by  a  sharp  tap  at  the  door — Aunt 
Pillar's  tap,  as  Miriam  well  knew — and  the  next  min- 
ute her  aunt's  portly  figure  blocked  the  doorway. 

"  So  you're  home  again !  "  she  said.  "  I  must  hear 
all  your  news ;  but,  in  the  meantime,  I've  come  to  see 
your  mother.  How  do  you  find  her?  Is  she  able  to 
see  me,  do  you  think  ?  " 

Miriam  led  the  way  to  her  mother's  sick  room,  and 
drew  a  chair  near  the  bed,  that  Aunt  Pillar  might  see 
for  herself  her  sister's  condition.  A  few  perfunctory 
inquiries  and  condolences,  however,  were  all  that  Aunt 
Pillar  wasted  on  the  sufferer.  As  was  quickly  evident, 
her  whole  interest  centered  upon  hearing  how  Miriam 
had  got  on  in  London.  For,  scarcely  listening  to  Mrs. 
Sadler's  plaintive  iteration  of  "  Nothing  will  lie  on  my 
stomach,"  she  turned  abruptly  round  to  question  her 
niece  about  more  interesting  subjects.  ' 

"  So  you're  back,"  she  said.  "  And  how  did  you  get 
on  among  the  fine  people  in  London  ?  " 

"  They  were  very  kind  to  me.  I  have  enjoyed  my- 
self very  much." 

"  I'm  told  they  keep  a  very  fine  establishment ;  our 
butler  was  with  them  before  he  came  to  us.  I've  heard 
him  say  as  the  house  was  very  handsome." 

"  I  daresay  it  is." 

Aunt  Pillar  brought  down  her  fat  foot  with  a  stamp 
upon  the  carpet. 

"  On  my  word,  Miriam,  you  are  a  provoking  girl ! 
Did  not  just  the  fineness  of  it  all  not  surprise  you?  " 

"  No ;  I  don't  think  that  was  what  surprised  me 
most,"  said  Miriam  slowly. 

"  Then  what  was  it?  Can't  you  speak  out?  Really, 
145 


THE     LADDER 

it's  bad  for  your  mother  being  aggravated  in  this  way ; 
nothing  sets  up  the  bile  more;  and  if  she's  like  me, 
she  must  be  fairly  provoked  with  you." 

"  I  think,  Aunt  Pillar,  it  was  the  fineness  of  their 
minds,  of  their  ideas,  their  ideals,  that  impressed  me," 
the  girl  said  slowly,  hesitating  as  if  in  search  of  the 
exact  words  to  express  her  meaning. 

It  was  nonsense  to  mention  the  word  "  ideals  "  be- 
fore such  a  listener;  but  Miriam  really  spoke  more 
to  herself  than  to  her  aunt.  Still,  the  admission  that 
anything  had  impressed  her  niece  with  fineness  rather 
mollified  Aunt  Pillar ;  she  looked  Miriam  up  and  down, 
and  nodded  her  head. 

"  I  daresay  it  would ;  I  daresay  it  would.  To  be 
sure,  the  ideas  of  the  gentry  are  quite  different  from 
ours.  To  show  you  what  I  mean,  her  ladyship  thinks 
nothing  of  laying  down  her  ten  or  twelve  shillings  for 
perfume,  and  Sarah,  her  maid,  tells  me  each  handker- 
chief she  has  she  pays  her  five  shillings  for — the  ones 
with  embroidery,  that  is.  Yes,  they're  brought  up  to 
large  ideas,  Miriam,  as  you  say,  and  it's  little  wonder 
you  felt  surprised  by  them." 

Mrs.  Sadler's  feeble  voice  made  itself  heard  from 
behind  the  curtains  at  that  point. 

"  I'm  sure,"  she  said,  "  it  won't  have  done  Miriam 
any  good  to  learn  to  pay  five  shillings  for  a  pocket 
handkerchief,  if  that's  all  she  went  to  London  to 
learn." 

Miriam  might  have  done  better  to  allow  her  rela- 
tives to  think  that  she  had  referred  to  the  Gores'  ideas 
on  expenditure ;  but  in  justice  to  her  late  entertainers 
she  tried  to  explain  her  meaning  a  little  more  clearly. 

146 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  It  wasn't  that  sort  of  fineness  I  meant,  in  the 
least,"  she  said,  hesitating  how  best  to  make  her  point 
clear.  "  I  meant  that  they  took  such  high  moral  views 
of  everything,  and  regulated  their  lives  by  such  fine 
standards  of  living." 

"I'm  sure  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  was  afraid  from 
\vhat  Mr.  Hobbes  said,  that  they  were  very  irreligious," 
said  Mrs.  Sadler. 

"  Tut,  tut,  Priscilla.  You're  righteous  overmuch," 
said  Aunt  Pillar.  She  was  provoked  by  Miriam's  at- 
titude to  the  Gores,  provoked  more  than  she  could  say. 
She  rose  and  prepared  to  go  off,  yet  lingered  to  catch 
an  item  or  two  from  this  unsatisfactory  niece. 

"  Tell  me  this,  at  least ;  did  they  treat  you  like  one 
of  themselves,  or  did  they  dine  separate,  or  what  ?  " 

Miriam  shook  her  head  and  laughed. 

"  No,  no,  Aunt  Pillar ;  I  wasn't  separated  from 
them  in  any  way,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure,  then,  I  hope  it  won't  have  done  you 
more  harm  than  good.  I  don't  myself  see  the  reason 
of  it  all;  what  were  you  asked  for  if  they  weren't 
going  to  do  anything  for  you?  It  puzzles  me  alto- 
gether." 

"  Perhaps  something  may  come  of  it  yet,"  suggested 
Mrs.  Sadler. 

"  Did  they  speak  of  doing  anything  for  you  ?  "  Aunt 
Pillar  went  on.  She  liked  definiteness  in  human 
affairs. 

"  No,  they  never  did.  They  are  not  like  that ;  they 
do  not  want  to  do  things  for  me ;  they  wish  to  help  me 
to  help  myself,"  said  Miriam.  "  And  isn't  that  the 
truest  kindness  ?  " 

'47 


THE     LADDER 

"  Umph !  "  said  Aunt  Pillar.  She  held  the  good  old 
ideas  of  the  overlord  and  the  retainer — the  one  the 
giver,  the  other  the  receiver — she  did  not  hold  with 
these  new-fangled  views  of  self-help. 

"  All  very  well,  Miriam,  but  those  in  high  places 
have  a  lot  in  their  power,  and,  if  I  were  you,  I  wouldn't 
be  above  asking  a  good  thing  from  them,  seeing  they've 
been  so  affable.  There  was  that  young  woman,  Hitch- 
cock, you  remember  Carrie  Hitchcock  ?  a  silly,  useless 
thing;  I  wouldn't  have  engaged  her  for  any  position 
myself;  well,  didn't  her  ladyship  take  a  fancy  to  her 
and  recommended  her  here,  and  recommended  her 
there  among  her  friends,  till  she  got  her  out  as  maid 
to  the  Countess  of  Malvern  going  to  Australia !  That's 
what  influence  will  do.  There's  nothing  like  it." 

"  I  wouldn't  be  recommended  to  any  position  I 
couldn't  fill,"  said  Miriam  loftily. 

Aunt  Pillar  smiled  a  grim  smile. 

"  There's  more  than  appears  about  the  getting  of 
most  positions,  my  girl,"  she  said.  "  Merit  has  wonder- 
fully little  to  do  with  it,  and  we  must  just  take  the 
world  as  we  find  it.  I'm  afraid  you  have  a  number 
of  silly  ideas,  Miriam,  that  you'll  live  to  see  the  folly 
of  yet.  And  this  is  just  one  of  them.  Don't  be  above 
taking  help  where  you  can  get  it.  I  know  the  gentry. 
They're  idle,  and  want  to  be  thought  busy.  There's 
nothing  they  like  better  than  philanthropy;  so,  take 
whatever  they'll  give,  and  be  thankful." 

The  girl  thus  admonished  smiled,  and  kept  silence; 
a  provoking  thing  to  do,  it  must  be  admitted.  Aunt 
Pillar  fastened  her  cloak,  took  up  her  umbrella,  and 
walked  to  the  door. 

148 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  You  may  smile,  Miriam,  and  think  you  know  more 
than  me  that  has  lived  a  lifetime  at  the  Manor,  because 
you've  spent  three  weeks  with  the  Gores.  But  what  I 
tell  you  is  true,  and,  as  I  say,  I  know  the  gentry  and 
their  ways,  which  is  more  than  you  do.  Good  night, 
Priscilla;  good  night,  Miriam.  Make  your  mother  a 
good  cup  of  beef  tea ;  that  will  lie  on  her  stomach,  if 
anything  will;  and  don't  have  your  silly  head  turned 
with  a  little  attention  from  those  above  you.  They'll 
never  think  of  you  again.  It's  their  way;  anything 
for  novelty ;  pet  you  one  day,  and  the  next  throw  you 
over  like  an  old  shoe.  I  know  them.  Good  night;  I 
must  be  off." 

She  bustled  dow7n  the  staircase,  that  creaked  under 
her  heavy  step.  Miriam  watched  the  stout  figure  dis- 
appear down  the  twilight  street,  and  then  turned  back 
into  the  house  with  a  sigh. 


149 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXII 

SEVERAL  days  passed,  and  as  Mrs.  Sadler  did  not 
show  speedy  enough  signs  of  improvement,  Miriam 
sent  for  Dr.  Pratt — always  a  last  resource  with  her. 

He  made  his  usual  bright,  musk-scented  entrance 
into  the  sick  room,  and  in  a  very  short  time  had  fin- 
ished his  diagnosis  of  Mrs.  Sadler's  simple  but  trying 
ailment.  Miriam  had  listened  to  his  suggestions,  and 
now  sat  wondering  why  the  physician  did  not  take  his 
leave.  But  this  was  explained  when  Dr.  Pratt  re- 
marked : 

"  I  must  ask  for  your  congratulations,  Mrs.  Sadler, 
and  I  daresay  you  will  be  a  good  deal  surprised — "  He 
paused,  with  a  jocular  little  attempt  at  hesitation, 
though  Miriam  saw  he  was  longing  to  go  on  with 
his  news. 

"  You're  never  going  to  be  married,  doctor !  "  Mrs. 
Sadler  exclaimed,  though  why  she  should  have  been 
surprised  by  such  a  natural  step  on  his  part  is  difficult 
to  explain. 

"  Indeed  I  am,  and  I  daresay  you  can  guess  who 
the  lady  is,"  he  said.  "  I  consider  myself  the  luckiest 
of  men."  Miriam  knew  that  her  cousin  Emmie  was 
the  lady  in  question ;  but  Mrs.  Sadler  guessed  several 
other  names  before  Dr.  Pratt  smilingly  supplied  her 
with  the  right  one. 

"  You  see,  Mrs.  Sadler,  we  have  been  prudence  it- 
150 


TO     THE     STARS 

self,"  he  added.  "  I  said  long  ago  to  Emmie  that  we 
must  remember  everyone  is  watching  us." 

That  curious  self-importance  which  overtakes  the 
newly  affianced  almost  like  a  disease,  had  fallen  upon 
Dr.  Pratt.  Mrs.  Sadler  could  scarcely  conceal  her 
mortification  at  his  announcement.  While  Emmie 
Pillar  had  remained  unmarried,  Miriam's  loverless 
condition  seemed  less  noticeable ;  but  now  that  Emmie 
had  secured  this  eligible  young  man,  what  would  the 
Hindcup  world  say  of  Miriam?  Mrs.  Sadler  asked 
the  question  bitterly  of  herself,  and  gave  brutal  reply 
in  her  own  heart : 

"  They'll  say  she  can't  marry,  and  it's  not  far  from 
the  truth.  Dear,  dear!  Emmie  getting  married  so 
nicely,  and  my  Miriam  left.  It's  just  as  Aunt  Pillar 
told  me  long  ago,  the  result  of  all  this  study ! " 

Miriam,  too,  was  silent  for  a  moment,  from  far  other 
reasons ;  she  was  wondering  what  it  could  be  that  made 
her  cousin  Emmie  want  to  marry  Dr.  Pratt. 

"  Am  I  not  to  have  your  congratulations,  then  ?  " 
Dr.  Pratt  said ;  and  she  laughed  and  held  out  her  hand 
very  pleasantly  to  him. 

"  I  think  you  are  to  be  congratulated,"  she  said. 
"  Emmie,  I  am  sure,  will  make  the  best  of  wives ;  she 
has  always  been  my  favorite  cousin."  This,  if  Dr. 
Pratt  had  known  the  truth,  was  not  saying  much,  but 
it  was  the  best  that  she  could  say. 

"  She  is  a  little  jewel,"  he  said,  swelling  with  self- 
importance  and  delight. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Sadler  bitterly ;  "  a  fine, 
womanly  young  girl,  clever  with  her  needle,  such  a 
cook,  and  a  born  housewife." 


THE     LADDER 

"  As  I  said,  I  consider  myself  the  luckiest  of  men," 
Dr.  Pratt  repeated,  and  Miriam  found  herself  wonder- 
ing how  often  in  the  long  annals  of  the  human  race 
this  phrase  had  been  reiterated  by  intending  husbands. 

"  Emmie  and  I  have  decided  not  to  delay  our  mar- 
riage for  long,"  Dr.  Pratt  pursued ;  "  for  everyone  will 
be  talking  so  much." 

"  To  be  sure  they  will,"  said  Mrs.  Sadler.  "  You're 
very  wise.  I  daresay  Emmie  will  be  here  soon  to  tell 
us  all  about  it." 

"  I  daresay  she  will,  so  I  must  be  off,"  said  Dr. 
Pratt.  They  watched  him  march  away  down  the 
street  looking  extraordinarily  well  pleased  with  him- 
self. 

"  Well,  I  never  did !  "  Mrs.  Sadler  exclaimed  in  a 
little  while.  "  Emmie  engaged !  How  those  girls 
have  gone  off,  to  be  sure." 

"  Yes,  haven't  they  ?  "  Miriam  agreed,  and  in  an  in- 
advertent moment  she  added  thoughtfully :  "  I  wonder 
now  what  Emmie  sees  in  that  man  to  make  her  wish 
to  marry  him  ?  "  No  sooner  had  she  spoken  than  she 
saw  her  mistake  and  wished  the  words  unsaid ;  but 
Mrs.  Sadler  unfortunately  caught  their  import.  She 
sat  up  on  the  pillow  and  turned  her  yellow  face  an- 
grily to  her  daughter. 

"  You'll  drive  me  wild  with  your  nonsense,  Miriam ! " 
she  exclaimed.  "  What  does  she  see  in  Dr.  Pratt ! — a 
well-to-do,  handsome  young  man,  driving  his  own  dog- 
cart and  getting  into  a  good  country  practice.  What 
more  would  any  girl  want,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  It's  un- 
womanly the  way  you  talk,  and  sometimes  I'm  down- 
rightly  ashamed  of  you." 

152 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I'm  sorry  I  provoke  you,  mother,"  said  Miriam, 
wondering  once  again  why  she  ever  expressed  what 
she  thought  about  anything.  "  I'll  go  downstairs  and 
get  that  mustard  plaster  the  doctor  advised  you  to 
have,"  she  added,  glad  of  an  excuse  to  leave  the 
room  and  let  her  mother's  irritated  feelings  calm 
down. 

As  she  was  coming  downstairs  the  front  door  flew 
open,  and  Emmie  rushed  in,  flushed,  and  excited- 
looking,  wearing  an  air  of  triumph  that  almost  made 
her  cousin  laugh  aloud. 

"  Good  morning,  Miriam.  How's  aunt  ?  It's  a  hor- 
rid thing,  biliousness.  Have  you  heard  the  news? 
I'm  engaged !  You  won't  guess  to  whom ;  no,  you 
never  will;  look  at  my  ring.  Mizpah;  so  sweet  and 
so  original.  Sydney — but  there  I've  let  it  out ;  but  it'll 
be  all  over  the  town  soon !  Look  at  my  ring ;  Sydney 
likes  Mizpah  better  than  any  other  design;  so  do  I. 
We  made  it  up  at  the  Badminton  Club  yesterday — you 
never  come  there;  Sydney  plays  so  splendidly,  you 
might  come  just  to  see  him  play;  now  that  he's  my 
fiance,  you  will  have  a  double  interest  in  him." 

Miriam  kissed  the  flushed  young  face,  and  suggested 
that  they  should  go  into  the  kitchen  while  she  pre- 
pared the  mustard  plaster.  "  Sydney  ordered  it,"  she 
said  a  little  mischievously.  It  was  really  quite  safe 
to  laugh  at  Emmie,  who  never  noticed  it.  Miriam 
fetched  the  mustard  tin  and  began  to  mix  the  plaster; 
then  she  asked  Emmie  suddenly  if  she  had  much  in 
common  with  Dr.  Pratt.  The  question  sprang  to  her 
lips  before  she  quite  realized  what  she  said,  and  Emmie 
was  naturally  offended  by  it.  She  drew  herself  up 

153 


THE     LADDER 

with  a  little  bridling  movement  that  was  characteristic 
of  her. 

"  I  am  devoted  to  the  doctor,"  she  said  with  great 
dignity.  "  We  have  a  great  deal  in  common — we  are 
both  musical ;  he  went  six  times  running  to  hear  Pina- 
fore once,  and  so  did  I ;  in  fact,  our  tastes  are 
identical." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right,  then,"  said  Miriam  cheerfully ; 
and  Emmie,  who  was  very  good-natured,  was  quite 
placated. 

"  You  see,  it's  because  you  scarcely  understand 
about  love  that  you  ask  such  silly  questions,"  she  said 
in  a  confidential  tone,  perching  herself  on  the  corner 
of  the  kitchen  table.  "  I  hope  you'll  have  an  admirer 
some  day,  it's  such  fun  being  in  love." 

"  Really  ? "  said  Miriam,  mixing  away  at  the  mus- 
tard. Emmie's  words  recalled  to  her  mind  something 
she  had  read  in  "  Tristram  Shandy  " : 

"I  thought  love  had  been  a  joyous  thing,"  quoth  my  Uncle  Toby. 
"  'Tis  the  most  serious  thing,  an'  please  your  honour,  (sometimes) 
that  is  in  the  world." 

But  her  reflections  were  broken  in  upon  by  Emmie's 
prattle. 

"  Yes,  what  a  man  wants  is  a  cheery  sort  of  girl, 
not  one  that  will  worry  him  with  ideas  and  books,  and 
all  that  sort  of  thing.  Since  my  engagement,  I  seem 
to  understand  so  much  more  about  men.  Sydney 
says  he  wants  a  pretty  little  plaything,  not  some  one  to 
talk  philosophy  with  him." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  talked  philosophy,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Sydney  can  do  anything.  But,  as  he  says,  what 
he  wants  is  a  wife,  not  a  philosopher." 

154 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I  daresay  that's  quite  true,"  said  her  cousin. 

"  Well,  to  be  quite  frank  with  you,"  said  Emmie, 
"  it  was  apropos  of  yourself  that  all  this  came  out.  It 
was  after  he  had  traveled  down  from  London  with  you 
and  Maggie;  he  had  been  noticing  you  all  the  way, 
it  seems — how  you  had  been  reading.  '  It's  not  rest- 
ful, darling,'  he  said  in  his  sweet  way,  '  to  see  a  woman 
reading  in  the  way  your  cousin  does.  I  don't  wonder 
the  men  are  afraid  of  her ' ;  and  then  he  added  a  lot 
of  nonsense  about  myself  that  I  cannot  repeat — "  She 
paused,  wishing  very  much  indeed  to  be  asked  to  repeat 
it  all,  but  as  Miriam  did  not  encourage  this  confidence 
she  went  on: 

"  Then  I  thought  it  so  clever  the  way  he  added, 
'  Emmie,  what  a  man  wants  is  a  wife,  not  a  philoso- 
pher.' He  is  very  brilliant.  (I  am  telling  you  all  this, 
because  I  think  it  may  do  you  good.)  Now  that  I'm 
engaged  I  hear  so  much  from  Sydney  of  what  men 
think  and  feel." 

"  But,  then,"  Miriam  interpolated,  "  all  men  are  not 
like  Sydney." 

"  No,  indeed ;  very  few  are ;  but  if  you  get  the  opin- 
ion of  a  very  clever  one  like  him,  it  is  worth  a  great 
deal." 

Miriam  smiled,  spreading  the  mustard  on  the  paper. 

"  I  must  go  and  administer  this,"  she  said.  "  I  shall 
want  to  hear  all  about  your  trousseau  soon,"  she  added, 
with  an  effort  to  be  sympathetic. 

"  Oh,  I've  decided  on  white  satin  for  the  wedding 
gown — Sydney  likes  it ;  and  the  going-away  dress  is 
to  be  blue.  The  bridesmaid's  presents  bothered  me  a 
little,  but  curiously  enough  we  both  hit  upon  the  same 

155 


THE     LADDER 

idea,  and  it's  quite  original,  I  think — you'll  never  guess 
— curb  bracelets." 

"  It  will  be  a  surprise !  "  echoed  Miriam.  "  And  who 
are  the  bridesmaids  to  be  ?  " 

Emmie  named  the  honored  maidens,  adding 
Miriam's  own  name  to  the  list. 

"There !"  she  said,  "that's  a  surprise  for  you, for  you 
know  you  are  just  getting  a  weeny  bit  old  for  a  brides- 
maid— nearly  five-and-twenty.  But  Sydney  wanted  it. 
He  says  he  has  known  so  many  matches  made  up  at 
weddings,  and  he's  just  as  anxious  as  I  am  that  you 
should  get  married.  It's  so  nice  to  be  engaged !  He 
has  a  great  friend,  a  doctor,  too,  who  is  to  be  a  grooms- 
man ;  perhaps  he  might  fancy  you — who  knows  ?  " 

"Who  knows?"  Miriam  echoed,  and  she  laughed 
to  herself  all  the  way  upstairs,  and  all  the  time  her  poor 
mother  lay  groaning  under  the  mustard  plaster  she 
continued  to  laugh. 


156 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MIRIAM  had  been  too  busy  for  a  fortnight  after  her 
return  home  to  look  at  the  book  Courteis  had  given 
to  her.  But  as  Mrs.  Sadler  got  better  she  found  time 
to  begin  her  studies  again.  A  few  chapters  sufficed 
to  show  the  trend  of  the  book.  She  laid  it  down  and 
considered  what  she  was  going  to  do.  For  this  author 
went  full  tilt  against  many  things — churches,  priests, 
creeds,  marriage,  the  whole  social  and  religious  frame- 
work of  English  life.  The  book  was  very  cleverly 
written,  and  it  amused  her  to  read  it;  but,  she  asked 
herself,  if  she  were  to  write  an  abstract  of  it,  and  if 
by  any  evil  chance  her  mother  were  to  see  it,  what 
would  happen  ? 

Of  course,  had  she  been  a  girl  in  a  Sunday-school 
story,  she  would  at  once  have  tied  up  the  book  in 
brown  paper  and  returned  it  whence  it  came.  But 
being  a  girl  in  real  life,  she  decided  to  risk  the  danger 
and  do  the  work.  After  all,  it  was  ten  chances  to  one 
that  her  mother  never  heard  anything  of  it.  Mrs. 
Sadler  never  asked  what  her  daughter  was  writing, 
and  it  was  almost  impossible  she  should  ever  read  the 
article  if  it  came  out. 

Having  thus  argued  with  herself,  Miriam  attacked 

the  bit  of  work  with  tremendous  energy.     It  was  far 

from  an  easy  task.    The  author  started  far  back  at  the 

beginning  of  things,  inquiring  into  the  origin  of  each 

11  157 


THE     LADDER 

of  the  institutions  which  he  attacked ;  then  he  followed 
up  their  growth,  and  finally  began  to  pull  them  to 
pieces  again.  Miriam's  business  was  to  assimilate  all 
this  knowledge,  and  present  it  in  an  easy  form  for  the 
benefit  of  the  general  reader. 

She  steeped  herself  in  the  arguments  of  this  revo- 
lutionary, laughing  sometimes  to  herself  as  she  read 
the  more  daring  sentences. 

Then  came  the  work  of  writing  the  abstract.  Week 
after  week  she  toiled  at  it,  and  found  the  days  short 
enough  as  they  passed ;  but  at  last  the  article  was 
concluded  and  sent  off,  and  Miriam  rested  from  her 
labors.  It  seemed  a  long  time  till  Courteis  wrote,  send- 
ing her  proofs  of  the  article.  She  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve her  eyes  when  the  great  bundle  of  printed  stuff 
arrived;  but  she  was  happily  alone  in  the  house  and 
able  to  take  the  package  up  to  her  own  room  and  study 
it  in  private.  She  read  the  proofs  through,  corrected 
one  or  two  blunders,  and  then  laid  them  away  in  a 
drawer  of  her  toilet  table,  for  she  did  not  yet  possess 
the  luxury  of  a  writing  desk.  This  done,  she  went 
out  to  have  a  walk,  little  dreaming  of  the  blow  that 
would  await  her  on  her  return. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening  in  late  autumn  and  Miriam 
walked  slowly  along  through  the  lanes  enjoying  the 
beauty  of  the  evening.  She  felt  wonderfully  peaceful 
and  happy,  somehow,  as  if  things  had  taken  a  turn  for 
the  better  in  her  life.  The  joy  of  doing  actual  work 
— work  that  she  loved — cheered  and  soothed  her ;  life 
seemed  worth  living,  even  in  Hindcup.  The  dusk  was 
falling  as  she  turned  her  steps  homeward ;  in  the  dis- 
tance the  lights  of  the  town  came  out  one  by  one. 

158 


TO     THE     STARS 

Miriam  quickened  her  steps  and  came  in  fresh  and 
brisk  from  the  night  air.  She  looked  almost  pretty, 
had  there  been  anyone  to  notice  it. 

But  she  found  Mrs.  Sadler  far  too  busy  with  some- 
thing else  to  observe  her  looks ;  for,  as  she  came  into 
the  parlor,  her  mother  was  reading  the  proofs  that 
she  had  left  safe  in  the  drawer  in  her  own  room. 

She  stood  stock  still  on  the  threshold  of  the  door- 
way, gazing  at  this  terrible  sight.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  tingling  silence,  and  then  Mrs.  Sadler  wailed 
out: 

"  Oh,  dear,  did  you  write  this  ?  " 

Miriam  closed  the  door,  and  came  across  to  where 
her  mother  sat.  She  knew  that  the  time  had  come 
to  fight  for  freedom  again. 

"  Yes,  mother ;  how  did  you  get  that  ?  I  did  not 
mean  you  to  see  it,"  she  asked. 

"  I  went  up  to  your  room  to  find  the  key  of  the  side- 
board. I  remembered  I  gave  it  to  you  last  night,  and 
I  could  see  it  nowhere,  so  I  opened  your  toilet  drawer, 
and  I  saw  this,  and  began  to  read  it ;  and  O  Miriam ! 
how  wicked  it  is !  "  Mrs.  Sadler  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  and  began  to  cry.  It  was  natural 
enough  that  she  should  do  so,  for  she  was  fully  under 
the  impression  that  her  daughter  had  originated  the 
daring  conclusions  which  were  voiced  in  this  article. 
She  had  read  so  cursorily  that  only  a  jumble  of  ideas 
remained  with  her,  and  these  the  most  startling. 

Miriam  sat  down  and  tried  to  explain  her  own  in- 
nocence in  the  matter ;  but  Mrs.  Sadler  would  take  no 
comfort. 

"  No,  no ;  you've  written  it,  and  this  is  the  end  of 
159 


THE     LADDER 

all  these  studies.  I'll  never  be  happy  till  you  give  them 
up ;  they'll  lead  you  to  no  good,"  she  said. 

"  Well,  mother,  I  won't  give  them  up.  I  am  sorry 
to  grieve  you,  but  I  cannot.  These  are  not  my  views, 
they  are  the  views  of  the  man  whose  book  I  am  de- 
scribing to  other  people,  that  is  all.  Please  read  no 
more  of  it,  and  think  no  more  about  it." 

But  she  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  wind ; 
nothing  would  now  convince  Mrs.  Sadler  that  these 
were  not  her  daughter's  views. 

"  You  wrote  it,  so  you  must  believe  it,"  she  repeated 
over  and  over  again. 

And  the  evil  did  not  end  here.  The  next  day  Mag- 
gie Broadman  came  to  remonstrate  with  Miriam  on 
the  error  of  her  ways,  having  heard  a  highly  colored 
version  of  the  story  from  Mrs.  Sadler. 

"  I'm  glad  to  find  you  alone,"  she  said.  "  I've  come 
to  speak  about  something — I  daresay  you  know  what 
I  mean — "  She  stopped,  almost  daunted  for  a  moment 
by  the  glowering  anger  in  her  cousin's  eyes. 

"  I  daresay  I  can  guess,"  Miriam  said. 

"  Of  course,  it's  about  this  writing  of  yours,"  Mag- 
gie proceeded,  in  her  patronizing  voice.  "You  really 
must  be  careful  what  subjects  you  choose.  A  young 
woman  like  you  perhaps  scarcely  understands  about 
these  subjects.  As  I  said  to  your  mother:  '  No  doubt 
it  was  ignorance  made  Miriam  write  that  awful  paper,' 
and  that  seemed  to  comfort  poor  aunt  a  good  deal." 

"  When  I  write  something  that  you  all  have  a  right 
to  be  ashamed  of,  you  may  come  and  speak  to  me," 
said  Miriam ;  "  but  till  then  I  can  do  without  your 
advice.  Mother  has  made  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole- 

160 


TO     THE     STARS 

hill,  that  is  all."  Her  eyes  blazed  with  anger;  Maggie 
had  never  known  that  her  cousin  possessed  so  much 
temper.  She  rose  rather  hastily. 

"  Oh,  well,  I  won't  waste  words  upon  you,"  she  said. 
"  Take  your  own  way." 

"  I  certainly  intend  to  do  so,"  Miriam  retorted. 

This  little  interview  was  bad  enough ;  but  exaspera- 
tion reached  a  climax  when  Emmie  came  to  remon- 
strate. She  found  Miriam  writing  in  her  own  room — 
a  unique  opportunity  for  advice  as  to  the  nature  of 
the  composition. 

"  Oh,  you're  writing !  I've  come  to  show  you  pat- 
terns of  my  wedding-gown  stuff,"  she  said,  scattering 
papers  to  right  and  left  without  a  thought  of  apology. 
"  I  want  the  brocade,  after  all ;  Sydney  thinks  it  suits 
my  complexion  better  than  the  dead  white.  O  Mir- 
iam, I  wish  you  would  get  married,  and  then  perhaps 
you  would  stop  writing  horrid  things  that  everyone 
is  shocked  at.  It's  much  nicer  to  be  married.  Couldn't 
you  manage  it?  I  used  to  think  that  young  Evans  at 
the  bank  had  an  admiration  for  you ;  but  no  man  will 
long  admire  a  girl  that  doesn't  respond  to  him  at  all. 
Can't  you  go  in  there  oftener?  I  saw  you  go  into  the 
grocer's  for  change  yesterday,  when  it  would  have 
been  quite  as  easy  to  cross  over  to  the  bank.  You'll 
be  left  an  old  maid  if  you  don't  take  care !  Sydney 
tells  me  he  used  to  be  quite  afraid  of  you  in  what  he 
will  call  his  '  bachelor  days.'  So  silly  of  him." 

She  paused ;  but  as  Miriam  scarcely  knew  which  of 
these  numerous  suggestions  she  should  reply  to,  she 
left  them  all  unanswered,  and  Emmie  went  on : 

"  Sydney  is  quite  annoyed  by  these  stories  about  you, 
161 


THE     LADDER 

Miriam  ;  about  this  article  you've  written,  I  mean.  He 
says  it  is  so  against  a  girl's  chance  of  marrying.  To 
think  that  you  should  write  against  marriage;  it  was 
so  strange  of  you.  What  put  such  an  idea  into  your 
head?  Sydney  was  saying  he  could  not  understand 
it,  unless  it  was  that  you  hadn't  any  admirers  and 
were  a  little  soured  by  it.  But,  then,  as  I  said  to  Syd- 
ney, you  are  quite  young  still,  after  all,  so  it  can 
scarcely  be  that;  I  think  it  must  be  because  you've 
never  been  in  love.  If  you  only  knew  what  fun  it  is 
being  in  love,  I'm  sure  you  would  stop  writing  against 
marriage." 

"  Perhaps  some  day  even  I  may  have  that  unique 
experience,"  said  Miriam ;  but  the  sarcasm  was  entirely 
wasted  on  Emmie. 

"  I  am  sure  I  hope  you  will ;  it's  not  at  all  im- 
possible yet,  but  it's  time  you  began  at  five-and- 
twenty.  Why,  I  had  three  proposals  before  I  was 
twenty-one !  " 

"  Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Miriam ;  but  again  the 
meaning  of  the  remark  was  not  apparent  to  Emmie. 

"  And  when  I  remember  what  fun  it  all  was,  I  don't 
understand  how  you  think  marriage  should  cease," 
Emmie  went  on.  "  Dear  me !  I'd  have  had  a  dull 
time  in  Hindcup  if  there  hadn't  been  any  talk  of 
marriage." 

Miriam  was  glad  to  be  able  to  laugh  heartily  at  this 
conclusion,  and  the  laugh  did  her  good. 

"  Come  and  let  me  see  your  patterns,  Emmie,"  she 
said,  "  and  we  won't  talk  any  more  about  this  storm  in 
a  tea  cup." 

Aunt  Pillar  was  the  next  to  remonstrate.  She  came 
162 


TO     THE     STARS 

over  to  Hindcup  late  one  evening,  and  asked  to  see 
Miriam  alone. 

"  So  this  is  the  end  of  your  visiting  with  the  Gores," 
she  said,  fixing  her  hard  eye  on  her  niece.  "  That  you 
come  back  to  disgrace  us  all.  It's  the  want  of  all 
worldly  wisdom  in  it  that  vexes  me.  Your  poor 
mother  never  had  any,  and  you're  like  to  follow  in 
her  steps,  writing  nonsense,  and  worse  than  nonsense, 
as  I  understand." 

"  I  hope  I'll  never  do  that,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Well,  you've  done  it  once,  by  all  accounts,  and  once 
is  enough  in  a  lifetime."  Then,  with  a  sudden  quick 
look  at  her  niece,  Aunt  Pillar  added :  "  Did  you  know 
the  Gores  were  coming  to  the  Manor  for  Christmas? 
It'll  be  awkward  for  you ;  they  won't  be  able  to  take 
much  notice  of  you  here,  though  they  were  so  inti- 
mate with  you  in  London;  but  after  this  that  you've 
written,  perhaps  they  won't  have  anything  more  to 
say  to  you." 

Miriam's  cheeks  flamed. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  quite  pleased  with  whatever 
they  do,"  she  said. 


163 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE  pool  of  Bethesda,  we  are  told,  had  no  magic 
quality  until  the  angel  had  troubled  it;  and,  in  the 
same  way,  that  deep  well  of  the  human  heart  has  to  be 
stirred  and  troubled  before  it  gives  forth  the  best  that 
is  in  it.  Emotion  of  one  kind  or  another  has  been  the 
begetter  of  every  work  of  Art ;  it  does  not  matter  very 
much  what  the  emotion  is,  provided  it  is  strong 
enough;  hate  will  serve  as  well  as  love,  bitterness  as 
well  as  joy;  only  let  the  pool  be  sufficiently  troubled, 
and  behold  the  magic  results ! 

Miriam  did  not  know  this  sweet  use  of  adversity. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  all  the  petty  irritations  of  her 
life  at  present  were  for  no  good  end  at  all,  and  could 
never  be  turned  to  any  account.  And  yet  they  were 
surely  leading  her  on  to  the  larger  events  of  life. 

This  is  how  it  happened.  She  had  come  in  one  af- 
ternoon feeling  more  than  usually  provoked  by  her 
cousins ;  they  had  all  been  offering  her  advice,  criticis- 
ing her  writing  (about  which  they  knew  nothing  what- 
ever), and  generally  irritating  her.  In  anger  and  bit- 
terness unbearable,  Miriam  sat  down  and  wrote  out 
all  the  overflowing  annoyance  she  was  feeling.  I  can- 
not say  that  what  she  wrote  was  kind ;  for  it  was  not. 
But  it  was  true,  which  many  kind  bits  of  writing  are 
not.  If  she  had  been  badgered  and  irritated  she  would 
at  least  hit  back  indirectly.  Aha !  there  was  some  sat- 
isfaction in  that. 

164 


TO     THE     STARS 

What  a  gallery  of  female  portraits  she  could  draw ! 
She  knew  so  much  about  her  sitters.  She  ran  over  a 
list  of  them ;  the  engaged  young  woman,  the  young 
matron,  the  young  mother,  the  unmarried  woman,  the 
old  woman,  the  cousin,  the  aunt — each  had  her  de- 
licious foibles,  her  exasperating  traits,  that  might  be 
pitilessly  written  down  for  the  world  to  laugh  at. 

"  They  don't  think  I  know  much  about  men,"  said 
Miriam,  grinning  to  herself ;  "  but  I  know  enough  and 
to  spare  about  women  and  their  ways.  If  they  are 
so  hard  on  me,  I  shall  touch  them  up  a  little,  for  a 
change ! " 

With  something  of  the  scientific  spirit,  then,  Miriam 
approached  her  task.  It  was  a  species  of  vivisection, 
cruel  enough,  but,  oh!  the  delight  of  it!  of  that  first 
quite  simple  little  description  of  an  engaged  young 
woman — Emmie,  in  other  words.  All  the  ineffable 
silliness  of  poor  Emmie's  character  was  plainly  set 
forth,  her  ridiculous  self-satisfaction  and  self-absorp- 
tion, her  deplorable  tactlessness.  "The  Affianced  One" 
was  a  very  pretty  bit  of  writing,  and  Miriam  was  al- 
most aware  of  the  fact.  Down  in  the  bottom  of  her 
heart  she  had  a  lurking  feeling  that  it  was  unkind 
to  transfix  poor  Emmie  thus,  like  a  butterfly  on  a  pin ; 
but  the  artistic  joy  of  seeing  the  work  grow  under  her 
hand  quieted  the  pricks  of  conscience.  Then  she 
turned  her  attention  to  a  study  of  maternity  as  pre- 
sented by  her  cousin  Matilda,  who  had  lately  added 
to  the  population  of  Hindcup.  Matilda's  attitude  now 
was  the  simple  one  that  no  such  feat  had  ever  been 
accomplished  before  in  the  long  annals  of  our  race. 
Eve  contemplating  Cain  and  Abel  cannot  have  been 

165 


THE     LADDER 

more  enamored  of  her  achievement.  Matilda  now  con- 
sidered herself  competent  to  advise  anyone  on  the 
management  of  infants,  and  she  seldom  spoke  on  any 
other  subject.  With  an  extraordinary  ingenuity  she 
could  bring  conversation  round  to  her  child,  start  it 
at  any  point  you  like  to  name.  All  this  Miriam  had 
been  noticing  for  long,  and  "  Mater  Triumphans  "  re- 
produced these  observations. 

Grace  Pillar,  Miriam's  only  unmarried  cousin,  was 
the  next  model.  Grace  was  the  most  unfortunate  type 
of  spinster.  She  was  always  skittishly  alluding  to  her 
age,  and  yet  would  be  considered  young  at  all  costs ; 
her  agreeability  was  almost  disgusting;  in  her  exces- 
sive desire  to  please,  she  forgot  all  dignity,  and  her 
claim  to  have  a  life  of  her  own.  To  see  her  slavish, 
almost  reverential,  attitude  toward  her  married  sisters, 
just  because  they  were  married — nay,  to  Emmie,  just 
because  she  was  engaged  to  be  married — was  a  sight 
to  make  the  heart  ache.  But  it  was  also  rather  nau- 
seating. Any  man  would  have  satisfied  Grace ;  only 
to  have  been  chosen  out  of  the  herd,  and  promoted  to 
wifehood,  and  allowed  to  become  a  mother,  she  would 
have  asked  no  more.  It  was  curious  why  such  an  ap- 
parently simple  joy  had  not  been  granted  to  the  heart 
that  so  craved  it ;  but  it  was  not  in  the  scheme  of  things 
that  Grace  should  be  married,  so  she  remained  un- 
sought. O  Miriam,  you  should  have  been  kinder 
here;  the  other  victims  of  your  revenge  were  at  least 
profoundly  pleased  with  themselves;  it  is  otherwise 
with  poor  Grace. 

"  Apotheosis  "  had  its  origin  in  Maggie  Broadman's 
transparent  and  fatuous  delight  in  all  things  pertain- 

166 


TO     THE     STARS 

ing  to  herself,  her  house,  her  servants,  her  husband, 
her  children,  her  dress.  Once  she  had  been  Maggie 
Pillar;  now  she  was  Maggie  Broadman  all  things 
were  hers.  The  fact  that  things  belonged  to  her  af- 
forded Maggie  a  satisfaction  that  it  is  difficult  even 
to  guess  at. 

These,  and  several  other  portraits,  Miriam  executed 
with  savage  pleasure.  At  first  she  wrote  them  with 
no  thought  of  publication ;  but  gradually  it  dawned 
upon  her  that  they  might  find  acceptance  with  the 
public. 

"  Would  it  be  safe  ?  "  she  wondered.  "  I  don't  sup- 
pose that  people  ever  recognize  themselves.  .  .  .  I'll 
send  them  to  Mr.  Courteis  and  see  what  he  thinks. 
.  .  .  I  might  publish  them  anonymously." 

JSo  to  Courteis  they  went;  and,  of  course,  were  re- 
ceived with  approval,  as  every  genuine  human  docu- 
ment is  sure  to  be.  There  was  no  doubt  at  all  of  their 
quality ;  they  were  quite  excellent. 

"  I  like  the  nip  in  them,"  Courteis  wrote.  "  They 
will  make  people  laugh;  send  me  as  many  as  you 
please.  I  shall  publish  one  every  week — of  course, 
as  you  wish  it — anonymously." 

Miriam  did  not  dare  to  get  those  numbers  of  The 
Advance  Guard  which  contained  her  productions  ;  that 
is  to  say,  she  did  not  dare  to  see  them  at  home.  But 
at  Miss  Foxe's  house  she  allowed  herself  the  pleasure 
of  reading  them.  She  and  Miss  Foxe  laughed  to- 
gether over  the  character-sketches  many  an  autumn 
afternoon. 

One  day,  shortly  before  Christmas,  on  her  way  back 
from  The  Old  House,  she  met  Maggie  Broadman  and 


THE     LADDER 

stopped  to  speak  to  her.  Maggie,  however,  showed  no 
inclination  to  stop,  but  merely  nodded  coldly  and 
passed  on  down  the  street. 

"  She  must  be  in  a  hurry,"  Miriam  thought.  Then 
a  little  farther  on  Matilda  came  in  sight,  with  the  per- 
ambulator, of  course,  and  again  Miriam  prepared  to 
greet  her  cousin.  To  her  great  surprise  Matilda  drove 
the  perambulator  into  the  roadway  and  crossed  to  the 
other  side  of  the  street  with  scarcely  a  sign  of  recog- 
nition. War  was  declared  without  any  doubt  what- 
ever, and  conscience  waking  suddenly  in  Miriam's 
breast,  told  her  the  reason  of  these  hostilities.  In  the 
evening  Mrs.  Sadler  came,  moist-eyed  and  in  breath- 
less haste,  from  the  prayer  meeting,  cast  herself  down 
in  her  armchair,  and  called  to  her  daughter: 

"Miriam,  Miriam!  I've  heard  it  all!  What's  this 
you've  done  now?  It's  all  over  Hindcup,  and  not  one 
of  the  family  will  ever  speak  to  you  again!  " 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  Miriam  asked  bravely,  but 
her  breath  came  a  little  short  as  she  spoke. 

"  Written  accounts  of  them  all  in  a  wicked  London 
paper,  for  money.  Matilda  told  me  she  had  read  all 
about  herself  and  her  little  Thomas  in  it,  and  Emmie 
and  her  trousseau  too ;  and,  O  Miriam !  what's  to 
be  the  end  of  it  all  ?  " 

Miriam,  to  tell  the  truth,  was  dismayed  at  last.  She 
had  never  dreamed  that  her  cousins  would  see  The 
Advance  Guard,  or  that  seeing  it,  they  would  recog- 
nize themselves  there. 

"  Some  one  must  have  been  trying  to  make  mis- 
chief," she  said  evasively.  But  Mrs.  Sadler  knew  all 
about  it. 

168 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  It's  Herbert  Pratt,  the  doctor's  brother ;  he's  in  a 
printer's  office  in  London,  you  know;  the  office  as 
prints  this  paper,  it  seems.  He  told  the  doctor  it  was 
known  who  had  written  the  papers,  and  he  sent  the 
numbers  down  to  him,  so  they  all  saw  for  themselves." 

Miriam  sat  in  silence  for  a  little. 

"  Well,  mother,"  she  said  at  last,  "  it's  a  great  pity ; 
but  seeing  it's  done,  the  best  we  can  do  is  to  laugh 
about  it.  Don't  take  it  too  seriously ;  that  only  makes 
the  matter  worse." 

Mrs.  Sadler,  however,  as  her  daughter  knew  only 
too  well,  might  always  be  relied  upon  to  do  the  worst 
it  was  possible  to  do  in  any  emergency;  her  instinct 
in  this  way  was  unerring. 

"  Laugh  at  it !  "  she  cried.  "  Indeed,  it's  no  laugh- 
ing matter ;  if  you  won't  do  so,  I'll  go  myself  and  beg 
pardon  of  every  one  of  them !  " 

"  Oh,  mother,  don't;  it's  quite  the  best  way  to  make 
them  think  more  about  it,"  cried  the  girl.  "  Do  leave 
it  alone,  say  no  more  about  it,  and  let  the  whole  thing 
blow  over." 

But  nothing  would  persuade  Mrs.  Sadler  that  this 
was  right,  and  Miriam  saw  that  she  was  already  rather 
looking  forward  to  the  round  of  apology-making — it 
was  the  sort  of  thing  she  enjoyed. 

Miriam  was  very  much  annoyed  with  herself  for 
having  got  into  such  a  difficulty;  surely  she  need  not 
have  added  this  offense  to  her  other  sins;  it  is  bad 
enough  to  live  among  uncongenial  people  if  you  are 
on  good  terms  with  them,  but  if  you  are  at  war  with 
them,  life  becomes  almost  impossibly  difficult. 

"  I  shall  have  to  leave  Hindcup,"  she  told  herself ; 
169 


THE     LADDER 

and  the  thought  was  not  altogether  disagreeable.  But 
in  the  meantime  she  had  to  face  a  great  deal  that  was 
unpleasant. 

The  Pillars  were  not  a  family  that  took  ridicule 
well ;  self-delight  was  their  leading  characteristic,  and 
this  had  been  mightily  offended  by  Miriam's  shafts. 
They  held  a  family  council,  where  it  was  decided  that 
they  would  continue  to  speak  to  their  erring  young 
relative,  but  that  she  was  never  to  be  asked  to  any 
of  their  houses,  or  included  in  any  way  in  the  family 
life.  They  "  owed  it  to  themselves,"  as  the  delightful 
phrase  goes,  to  see  that  after  such  an  offense,  she  was 
not  treated  with  too  great  leniency. 

As  Christmas  drew  near,  this  exclusion  from  the  life 
of  the  Pillar  connection  became  very  marked,  for  it  was 
their  custom  to  make  a  great  deal  of  the  festive  sea- 
son. An  immense  amount  of  eating  and  drinking  went 
on  in  their  various  houses.  On  Christmas  Day  they 
all  dined  with  Maggie  Broadman,  because  she  was 
the  wealthiest  of  the  family,  and  loved  to  display  her 
gear.  On  Christmas  Eve  they  had  a  little  dance  at 
Matilda's  house,  and  the  next  evening  Grace  and 
Emmie  and  Timothy  always  gave  what  they  called 
a  "  party  "  at  the  original  Pillar  homestead. 

Mrs.  Sadler  was  duly  invited  to  all  these  entertain- 
ments, but  Miriam  was  excluded  from  them.  At  first, 
with  some  faint  maternal  feeling,  Mrs.  Sadler  had  de- 
clared she  could  go  nowhere  without  her  daughter, 
but  a  little  pressure  made  her  reconsider  this  decision, 
and  she  promised  to  attend  all  the  gatherings. 

Now  youth  is  youth,  be  it  never  so  intellectual,  and 
on  Christmas  Eve,  after  Mrs.  Sadler  had  gone  off  to 

170 


TO     THE     STARS 

Matilda's  dance,  and  even  "  the  girl  "  had  departed 
on  some  little  junketing  of  her  own,  Miriam  sat  by 
the  parlor  fire  feeling  very  lonely  and  sorry  for  her- 
self. 

"  I've  cut  myself  off  from  my  own  people,  and  I  am 
nothing  to  anyone  else,"  she  thought. 

The  book  fell  from  her  hand ;  she  sat  staring  into 
the  fire.  Outside,  the  crisp  night  air  was  full  of  the 
merry  voices  of  young  people  bent  on  amusement — the 
whole  little  Hindcup  world  was  abroad  that  night ;  she 
alone  was  dull  and  lonely. 

Then  Miriam  heard  a  brisk  step  come  up  the  path, 
and  a  sharp  knock  upon  the  door.  She  opened  it, 
expecting  to  see  the  postman;  it  was  not  the 
postman,  however,  but  a  footman  from  Hindcup 
Manor. 

"Good  evenin',"  said  he.  "Miss  Sadler  live  'ere? 
Our  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece?  " 

He  was  a  young,  rather  jaunty-looking  fellow,  and 
he  stepped  inside  the  door,  as  he  spoke,  so  as  to  get 
a  better  look  at  Miriam. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment. 

"  Yes,  I  am  Miss  Sadler.  Have  you  brought  me  a 
message  from  Mrs.  Pillar  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  no,  Miss — Sadler — "  he  said,  with  a  little 
hesitation  both  in  voice  and  look,  "  not  just  so  to  say 
from  Mrs.  Pillar;  but  I've  a  letter  for  you  'ere  from 
Miss  Gore  as  wants  an  answer." 

Again  Miriam  hesitated.  She  was  alone  in  the 
house,  so  she  decided  to  ask  the  man  to  wait  at  the  door. 
She  turned  into  the  parlor  and  opened  the  note.  It 
was  from  Delia,  asking  how  they  were  to  meet.  "  Shall 

171 


THE     LADDER 

I  come  and  see  you  to-morrow  ?  Or  tell  me  which  day 
would  suit  best/'  she  wrote. 

As  she  stood  wondering  which  day  and  hour  to  ap- 
point, the  young  man  at  the  door  became  impatient. 
He  coughed  slightly,  and  remarked  from  the  door: 
"  Very  cold  evenin',  Miss  Sadler." 

It  was  only  natural.  He  knew  this  young  woman 
as  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece ;  why  should  he  not  make  some 
efforts  at  conversation  with  her  ?  For  a  moment  Mir- 
iam felt  annoyed ;  then  she  remembered  how  absurd 
it  was  of  her  to  be  so.  She  decided  to  ask  him  to 
come  in. 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  wait  while  I  write  this 
note  ?  "  she  said,  as  simply  and  kindly  as  she  could ; 
but  at  the  sound  of  her  voice  the  young  man  seemed 
to  take  a  different  view  of  the  situation. 

"  Thanks,  Miss  Sadler,  I'm  very  well  here ;  my  boots 
is  a  bit  muddy,"  he  said  hastily. 

Miriam  scribbled  her  answer  and  handed  it  to  him. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting  so  long,"  she 
said.  The  young  man  protested  that  he  had  not  found 
the  time  long;  he  could  not  understand  Mrs.  Pillar's 
niece,  somehow;  she  was  unusual.  He  wished  now 
to  be  agreeable,  yet  scarcely  knew  how. 

"  Comin'  to  our  dance  on  Friday  evenin'  ?  "  he  asked 
tentatively.  "  We're  'avin'  it  decorated  very  fine,  in- 
deed. If  I  might  ask  for  the  pleasure  of  a  dance — " 
He  paused  and  hesitated. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miriam,  "  but  I'm  not  coming 
to  the  dance.  We  are  not  tenants  of  Sir  Samuel's ;  it 
is  a  tenants'  ball." 

"  Oh,  beg  pardon ;  thought  perhaps  being  friends 
172 


TO     THE     STARS 

to  our  Mrs.  Pillar,"  he  said ;  "  but  there,  you'd  not 
care  about  it,  I  expect,  miss." 

It  was  a  tribute  he  found  himself  forced  to  pay  to 
this  something  there  was  in  Miriam  unlike  her  own 
class.  She  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"  Perhaps  not ;  perhaps  you're  right,"  she  said,  as 
she  held  the  door  open  for  him  to  pass  out.  But  as 
she  came  back  into  the  empty  room,  she  wondered  if  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  her  to  enjoy  the  dance 
at  the  Manor. 

"  Delia  and  Alan  Gore  will  be  there,"  she  thought. 


12  173 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXV 

THE  post  next  morning  brought  Miriam  another 
letter  from  Delia  Gore.  She  read  it  over  twice,  and 
then  turned  to  her  mother : 

"  This  is  from  Miss  Gore,  mother,"  she  said.  "  I 
told  you  she  wrote  to  me  last  night,  and  that  I  asked 
her  to  come  here  to-day  to  see  me ;  well,  it  seems  that 
Lady  Joyce  has  something  else  she  wishes  her  to  do 
to-day,  and  so  she — Lady  Joyce — asks  me  to  come  to 
the  Tenants'  Ball  on  Friday,  instead.  Do  you  think  I 
should  go  ?  " 

"  I  think,  my  dear,  that  you  are  a  very  fortunate 
young  woman,  getting  this  chance  for  a  little  amuse- 
ment when  your  own  folly  has  cut  you  off  from  every- 
thing else.  I'm  sure  it's  very  kind  of  her  ladyship  ask- 
ing you.  I  suppose  you'll  need  a  fly  from  the  '  Green 
Man.'  Aunt  Pillar  will  look  after  you ;  of  course  she 
isn't  very  well  pleased  with  you  just  now,  but  she's  not 
as  put  out  as  the  others,  because  you  haven't  written 
anything  about  her  yet,  whatever  you  may  do  before 
long,  so  I  daresay  she  will  not  make  any  difficulty 
about  you.  Yes,  indeed,  I  think  you  ought  to  go." 

Miriam  was  not  so  sure  about  it  herself.  Of  course 
she  longed  to  go,  but  would  it  be  prudent  for  her  to 
do  so?  Perhaps  she  might  see  Alan  Gore,  perhaps — 
oh,  might  that  be  possible  ? — even  dance  with  him ! 

Prudence  had  long  ago  told  her  that  she  should 
174 


TO     THE     STARS 

avoid  meeting  Gore  again,  and  she  had  listened  to  the 
voice  of  this  unloved  adviser,  and  thought  that  she 
would  obey  it.  But  Miriam  would  have  been  less  than 
a  woman  and  wholly  intolerable  if  she  had  listened 
to  it  now. 

"  I  shall  be  happy  for  once,"  she  said,  "  whether  it 
makes  me  miserable  afterwards  or  not."  She  could 
have  echoed  the  words  of  the  old  song: 

Eh  for  Friday  nicht, 
Friday  at  the  gloamin', 
Eh  for  Friday  nicht, 
Friday's  long  in  comin'! 

For  it  seemed  as  if  Friday  would  never  arrive. 

When  it  did,  what  a  toilet  Miriam  made!  Never 
had  she  bestowed  so  much  care  and  thought  upon  her 
appearance;  but  it  is  gratifying  to  know  that  it  was 
to  some  good  result.  A  musty-smelling  fly  came  round 
at  eight  o'clock  from  the  "  Green  Man,"  and  she 
rumbled  off  in  it  toward  the  Manor. 

It  was  only  eight  months  since  that  spring  evening, 
that  already  seemed  so  far  away,  when  she  first  met 
Alan  Gore  in  Aunt  Pillar's  parlor.  Yet  the  whole 
world  was  changed,  and  how  changed  she  was  her- 
self since  then ! 

A  great  deal  of  commotion  was  going  on  in  the 
kitchen  regions  at  the  Manor.  No  one  was  there  to 
open  the  door  for  her,  so  she  found  her  way  as  well  as 
she  could  along  the  passages  to  Aunt  Pillar's  room. 

That  good  woman  was  lying  back  in  her  armchair 
much  exhausted. 

"  What  with  anxiety  that  cook  should  be  successful 
175 


I1  HE     LADDER 

with  dinner  when  there's  so  much  else  going  on,  and 
worry  as  to  whether  them  caterers  from  Goodhamp- 
ton  would  put  out  the  ball  supper  rightly,  I'm  all  in 
a  perspiration,"  she  ejaculated  as  Miriam  came  in. 
She  found  energy,  however,  to  survey  the  appearance 
of  her  niece. 

"  That  will  be  the  dress  you  bought  in  London,  I 
suppose ;  it's  very  plain ;  but  really  I  must  say  you've 
improved  ;  you  look  quite  the  lady,  somehow.  Did  you 
say  Miss  Gore  chose  it  for  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Aunt  Pillar." 

"  Well,  to  my  mind,  that  kind  of  plainness  is  another 
form  of  pretension,  when  we  put  it  on ;  our  class  wear 
trimmings  naturally." 

"  But  don't  you  think  the  plain  things  are  nicer  ?  " 
Miriam  asked. 

"  Perhaps  for  the  like  of  Miss  Gore ;  they  seem  up- 
pish in  you.  Well,  it  was  kind  of  her  ladyship  asking 
you  to-night.  When  I  am  a  little  rested  we'll  go  down 
to  the  hall.  The  dancing  begins  at  nine  o'clock.  I'm 
sure  I  hope  the  girls  will  behave  well ;  that  under- 
housemaid  is  a  nice  piece  of  goods,  if  ever  there  was 
one,  and  I'm  not  too  sure  of  the  kitchenmaid,  either." 

After  a  little  more  in  this  vein,  Aunt  Pillar  rose 
from  her  chair,  wiped  her  face,  and  adjusted  her  grand 
lace  cap  at  the  glass.  She  wore  her  black  trained  silk 
gown,  "  relieved,"  as  she  would  have  expressed  it,  by 
collar  and  cuffs  of  Honiton  lace,  a  gift  from  Lady 
Joyce.  A  very  large  cameo  brooch  fastened  the  collar, 
and  a  gold  watch  chain  was  festooned  across  her 
bodice.  Altogether  Aunt  Pillar  was  a  figure  to  fill 
the  eye. 

176 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Come  away,  then,  Miriam ;  I  must  be  going  down. 
I  hear  the  band  tuning  up.  Lor' !  but  I'm  tired  and 
hot ! "  she  exclaimed,  sweeping  down  through  the 
draughty  back  passages  like  a  ship  under  full  sail. 

The  hall  was  crowded  when  they  came  in;  but  a 
way  was  made  for  Aunt  Pillar  through  the  crowd,  and 
she  moved  up  to  the  top  of  the  room,  and  took  her 
stand  beside  the  butler,  with  whom  she  entered  into 
dignified  conversation. 

Miriam  stood  a  little  behind  her  aunt  and  looked 
about  her.  She  did  not  know  all  the  people,  by  any 
means,  for  they  were  tenants  on  the  estate,  not  natives 
of  Hindcup ;  but  she  knew  most  of  the  house  servants. 
After  a  minute  or  two  the  footman  who  had  brought 
the  note  came  up  rather  shyly  to  address  her. 

"  You've  come,  after  all,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said.  "  I 
'ope  I  may  have  the  pleasure  of  a  dance  with  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miriam,  as  pleasantly  as  she 
could;  but  her  heart  sank.  Was  it  for  this  sort  of 
thing  that  she  had  come  to  the  Manor  ball  ? 

She  saw  two  of  the  housemaids  nudge  each  other 
and  giggle. 

"  See  James  a-makin'  up  to  Miss  Sadler,"  one  whis- 
pered to  the  other.  And  then  the  door  at  the  far  end 
of  the  hall  opened,  and  Lady  Joyce  and  her  friends 
came  in.  They  were  all  laughing  and  talking  together, 
a  bevy  of  men  and  women.  It  took  Miriam  a  minute 
or  two  to  make  out  Delia  and  Alan  Gore  among  them 
all.  She  did  not  like  to  look  hard  at  them,  and  with 
a  sudden  consciousness  of  the  difficulty  of  her  position, 
she  shrank  behind  Aunt  Pillar  and  hoped  they  would 
not  see  her.  Delia  came  slowly  up  the  hall,  looking 

177 


THE     LADDER 

round  her,  then  she  saw  Aunt  Pillar  and  advanced  to 
where  she  stood. 

"O  Mrs.  Pillar,  has  your  niece  come  yet?"  she 
asked.  Miriam  stepped  forward,  and  answered  the 
question  in  person.  That  curious  ease  which  she  al- 
ways felt  with  Delia  had  taken  the  place  of  her  mo- 
mentary shyness ;  she  laughed  with  pleasure  to  see  her 
friend  again. 

"  I  was  hiding  behind  Aunt  Pillar,"  she  said.  "  I 
felt  so  shy  and  strange ;  but  now  you  are  here  it  is  all 
right." 

Even  as  she  was  speaking,  Alan  Gore  came  up  to 
where  they  stood. 

"  Are  you  going  to  dance  with  me  ?  "  he  said,  look- 
ing at  her  with  an  amused,  pleased  expression. 

"  O  Mr.  Gore,  I'm  sorry.  I  have  just  promised 
to  dance  with  Thomas,  the  footman,"  she  answered. 

"  But  I  don't  fancy  you  have  promised  to  dance  with 
him  all  the  night  ?  Perhaps  I  may  come  after  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course  you  may,"  she  said. 

"  And  has  the  world  been  going  well  with  you 
lately  ? "  he  inquired.  "  We  have  been  immensely 
amused  by  your  sketches  in  The  Advance  Guard  of 
late." 

"  Oh,  don't  please  speak  about  them !  "  Miriam  ex- 
claimed. She  would  have  explained  further,  but  James 
came  up  at  that  moment  to  claim  his  dance,  and  the 
explanation  had  to  be  deferred. 

He  laid  a  large,  heavy  hand  on  her  shoulder  and 
led  her  forward. 

"  There's  a  man  for  you ! ''  he  exclaimed  as  they 
stood  together ;  he  indicated  that  it  was  of  Alan  Gore 

178 


TO     THE     STARS 

he  spoke.  "  Not  another  like  him — don't  tip  as 
heavy  as  many  of  the  gentlemen  that  comes  here,  and 
yet — well,  there's  that  in  'im  that  none  of  them  has." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam.    "  I  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Speaks  to  you  different,  somehow.  And  I'll  tell 
you  what,  Miss  Sadler,  it  ain't  just  affability;  they're 
mostly  all  affable,  or  wish  to  be;  there's  not  a  more 
affable  gentleman  than  our  Sir  Samuel  in  England. 
But  Mr.  Gore's  not  affable,  'ee's  human." 

"  Yes."  She  agreed  again,  and  the  eulogist  pur- 
sued: 

"  Went  into  his  room  with  a  telegram  this  very 
mornin'.  I  was  a  bit  worried  over  something  meself 
to-day.  You  wouldn't  suppose  as  anyone  would  notice 
the  way  I  looked,  but  'ee  did.  Mr.  Gore  did,  asked  me 
straight  out '  Wat  was  the  matter  ?  '  and  'ad  me  telling 
of  it  all  to  him  before  I  knew  where  I  was." 

"  Ah !  "  Miriam  cried.  "  That's  it !  Something  no 
one  else  has.  If  all  the  world  was  like  Mr.  Gore,  there 
would  be  an  end  of  all  this  hateful  class  feeling." 

James  was  surprised.  He  had  been  hearing  about 
Miriam  from  the  other  servants ;  evidently  what  they 
said  was  true;  she  was  peculiar. 

"  Well,  I  ain't  got  no  quarrel  with  my  class,  nor  yet 
with  the  gentry,  when  I'm  treated  decent,"  he  said. 
"  But  I  hear  you're  a  bit  different,  Miss  Sadler,  risin' 
in  the  scale,  so  to  say  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  my  misfortune  to  long  for  knowledge, 
and  desire  expression,"  said  Miriam  gravely. 

"  O  Lor' !  "  said  James,  and  the  heartfelt  exclama- 
tion made  her  laugh.  She  had,  indeed,  forgotten  to 
whom  she  was  speaking,  and  could  readily  understand 

179 


THE     LADDER 

how  ridiculous  her  remark  must  have  made  her  ap- 
pear to  the  young  man.  The  laugh  did  something  to 
atone  for  the  highfaluting  sentiment  that  had  preceded 
it,  and  James,  a  little  reassured,  drew  her  in  among  the 
dancers.  But  when  his  dance  was  over,  he  made  no 
effort  to  secure  another  with  this  strange  young 
woman ;  he  made  his  way  across  the  hall  to  where  one 
of  the  smart  young  housemaids  stood. 

"  Come,  Ethel,  'ave  the  polka  with  me,"  he  said 
persuasively ;  "  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece  'as  given  me  the 
shivers  up  me  back.  That's  not  the  'orse  for  my 
money ! " 


180 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

RELEASED  from  the  society  of  James,  Miriam  went 
and  sat  down  at  the  side  of  the  room  to  wait  until 
it  was  time  for  her  dance  with  Alan  Gore ;  she  was  not 
anxious  to  have  another  partner  in  the  meantime.  It 
was  quite  sufficiently  amusing  to  sit  there  watching 
all  that  went  on ;  she  was  content  and  happy. 

When  Gore  came  for  their  dance  she  could  scarcely 
speak  for  pleasure;  to  stand  beside  him,  to  hold  his 
hand  was  a  rapture  she  had  never  guessed  at  before. 

"  I'm  afraid  you're  thinking  this  all  a  great  bore," 
he  said,  misinterpreting  her  silence. 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  I  am  not,"  she  assured  him. 

"  Well,  when  our  dance  is  over,  we  shall  sit  down 
and  talk;  one  can't  dance  and  talk  rationally  at  the 
same  time,"  he  said. 

Miriam  laughed.  "  I  have  just  frightened  that 
young  man,  the  footman,  James,  so  much.  I  said 
something  rational  to  him,  and  he  thought  I  was 
crazy." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  Only  that  I  desired  knowledge,  and  expression,  or 
words  to  that  effect." 

"  Poor  James !    And  what  did  he  say  ?  " 

"  He  said,  '  O  Lor' ! '  and  never  spoke  to  me  again." 

"  Well,  be  warned,  and  say  nothing  profound  to  me 
until  I  sit  down." 

181 


THE     LADDER 

It  was  soon  over,  very  soon  it  seemed  to  her,  and  then 
they  sat  down  on  the  benches  at  the  end  of  the  hall. 
Miriam  watched  the  crowd  before  them  with  somber, 
intent  eyes. 

"  What  do  you  see  in  it  all  ?  "  Gore  asked  her. 

"  I  have  had  little  amusement  or  gayety  in  my  life," 
she  began  hesitatingly ;  "  and  when  I  catch  a  glimpse 
of  it  sometimes,  I  begin  to  wonder  if  it  isn't,  after  all, 
the  most  valuable  real  bit  of  life ;  just  to  be  alive  and 
amused  and  delighted.  Is  that  not  worth  more  than 
anything  else  ?  " 

Gore  sat  looking  down  at  the  ground  in  silence ; 
indeed,  he  was  silent  so  long  that  Miriam  thought  he 
could  not  have  heard  her  question. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said  suddenly,  "  I've  felt  that, 
too,  as  if  all  the  aspirations  and  struggles  of  life 
seemed  empty  nonsense  compared  with  the  emotional 
side  of  it — '  By  all  these  things  men  live ' — there's  no 
getting  past  that." 

Just  as  he  spoke,  a  woman  passed  close  to  where 
they  sat.  Miriam  had  noticed  her  when  she  came  in 
with  Lady  Joyce.  As  she  passed  them,  she  made  a 
little  fluttering  gesture  with  her  hand  to  Alan  Gore. 

"  Oh,  who  is  that  ?  "  Miriam  exclaimed.  "  How 
beautiful  she  is.  I  have  never  seen  anyone  so  beau- 
tiful!" 

"  That  is  Sophia  Hastings,  the  woman  I  am  going 
to  marry,"  Gore  answered.  There  was  a  short  silence. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  said  Miriam.  She  could  not  say 
a  word  of  well-wishing  or  felicitation  to  him  ;  curiously 
enough  the  words  that  passed  through  her  mind  were 
those  of  poor  Swift's  epitaph  she  had  been  reading 

182 


TO     THE     STARS 

and  wondering  at  the  day  before :  "  Where  fierce  rage 
can  tear  the  heart  no  more." 

She  seemed  to  understand  at  that  moment  what  the 
terrible  words  meant.  The  injustice  of  things  appeared 
suddenly  manifest  to  her ;  the  way  in  which  everything 
went  to  some  favorite  of  the  gods,  while  others  as 
good,  but  outcasts  from  their  favor,  were  tossed  only 
the  crumbs  from  the  feast.  Why  should  this  woman 
get  everything?  Had  she  done  anything  to  deserve 
such  happiness?  she  asked  herself  stupidly,  ignoring 
the  obvious  fact  that  it  is  very  seldom  the  deserving 
who  get  their  deserts.  Young  and  beautiful,  and 
doubtless  wealthy,  why  had  this  crowning  blessedness 
been  given  to  Sophia  Hastings  ?  A  little  more  knowl- 
edge of  life  would  have  taught  her  that  it  was  just 
because  Sophia  Hastings  was  young  and  beautiful  and 
wealthy,  that  the  final  blessedness  was  added  to  her 
brimming  cup.  But,  as  yet,  Miriam  had  not  this 
knowledge;  she  still  thought  that  felicity  should  be 
earned. 

"  You  have  not  wished  me  joy,"  said  Alan  Gore. 
(Almost  the  same  words  that  Dr.  Pratt  had  used,  but 
how  differently  they  affected  Miriam!) 

"  I  am  tired  of  wishing  joy  to  other  people ;  I  want 
some  of  my  own,  for  a  change,"  she  answered  bitterly 
and  ungraciously.  Her  words  made  Gore  look  up  in 
surprise. 

"  I'm  afraid  things  have  not  been  going  well  with 
you,"  he  said.  "  Is  anything  specially  the  matter?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  something  very  special.  I 
happen  to  be  very  miserable  to-night,  and  it  seems  the 
last  straw  to  hear  about  your — her — happiness." 

183 


THE     LADDER 

"  I  am  so  sorry  that  I  told  you,"  he  said.  Another 
dance  had  begun,  and  the  whirling  figures  passed  and 
repassed  before  them.  The  music,  loud  and  pulsing, 
rang  in  her  ears ;  it  seemed  intolerable  to  Miriam. 
She  longed  to  go  away  and  leave  all  this  noise  and  be 
alone.  But  that  was  impossible.  She  pulled  herself 
together  with  a  great  effort. 

"  This  isn't  the  time  or  the  place  to  talk  about  one's 
griefs,"  she  said ;  "  nor  to  think  about  them,  either. 
And,  O  Mr.  Gore,  I  hope  you  will  be  happy !  I  don't 
know  how  I  could  be  so  disagreeable  just  now." 

She  did  not  wait  to  hear  his  answer,  but  turned  away 
into  the  crowd  and  sought  for  Aunt  Pillar.  The  night 
would  come  to  an  end  sometime ;  she  must  get  through 
it  as  well  as  she  could. 

Aunt  Pillar  welcomed  her  with  unwonted  geniality. 

"  Here  you  are,  Miriam,  just  when  I  was  looking 
for  you;  you're  in  luck  to-night.  I  saw  you  going 
round  the  room  with  Mr.  Gore.  Here's  Mr.  Spens,  the 
house  steward,  wanting  a  dance  with  you  now." 

So  Miriam  danced  with  Mr.  Spens,  and  you  may  be 
sure  he  found  her  a  dull  enough  partner.  Then  Aunt 
Pillar,  in  her  capacity  of  chaperone,  produced  two  or 
three  other  men  for  her  niece's  benefit;  and  she  had 
to  get  through  a  dance  with  each  of  them.  Twice  in 
the  course  of  the  night  she  suggested  that  she  must  be 
going  home,  twice  Aunt  Pillar  refused  to  let  her  go. 

"  Her  ladyship  would  notice  it,"  she  said ;  "  after 
getting  the  invitation,  it  would  never  do;  she  would 
think  you  weren't  enjoying  yourself,  and  really  it's 
wonderful  how  many  dances  you've  had.  You've 
scarcely  sat  down  all  the  evening !  " 

184 


TO     THE     STARS 

At  last,  however,  Aunt  Pillar  allowed  that  the  time 
had  come  for  her  niece  to  go. 

"  You've  a  longish  drive  before  you  get  home,  so 
you  should  be  off  now.  I'll  send  James  to  get  the  fly 
round  to  the  door  for  you,"  she  said.  Miriam  gladly 
escaped  into  the  cool  air  of  the  passages,  and  made  her 
way  down  to  the  door. 

James,  a  little  happy  after  various  suppers,  had  pro- 
duced the  flyman.  He  came  to  put  Miriam  into  the 
fly,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  squeezing  her  hand 
in  a  friendly  way,  as  he  helped  her  into  the  vehicle. 
"  Good  night,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said ;  "  and  a  Merry 
Christmas  to  you.  And  take  my  advice  and  leave  them 
haspirations  alone,  an'  look  out  for  a  good  'usband." 

He  tucked  the  train  of  her  dress  in,  and  banged  the 
door  of  the  fly. 

Miriam  sank  back  against  the  fusty-smelling  cush- 
ions and  sobbed.  Thus  ended  her  Christmas  ball,  and 
a  chapter  of  her  life  with  it. 


185 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

AT  breakfast  next  morning  Miriam  had  to  tell  her 
mother  all  about  the  ball,  that  is  to  say,  she  told  her 
precisely  such  things  about  it  as  mattered  nothing  at 
all.  Mrs.  Sadler  listened  with  great  interest,  and  then, 
in  her  turn,  gave  an  account  of  the  evening  she  had 
spent  at  Matilda's. 

"  And  a  very  pleasant  party  it  was,  all  the  cousins, 
and  myself,  and  Mr.  Smaile — "  She  paused  and  smiled. 

"Why,  Mr.  Smaile?"  Miriam  asked.  "I  wonder 
why  Matilda  asks  him  to  her  house — a  horrid  old 
man." 

"  O  my  dear !  such  a  way  to  speak  of  the  best  of 
men,"  Mrs.  Sadler  exclaimed. 

Mr.  Smaile  was  an  ex-schoolmaster  living  on  a  tiny 
annuity  in  Hindcup.  He  had  always  been  a  pet  aver- 
sion of  Miriam's,  though  she  could  not  very  well  say 
why  she  disliked  him  so  much.  She  hated  even  to 
meet  him  in  the  street,  and  turned  away  from  him 
instinctively.  He  was  a  short  man  with  a  profuse 
white  beard  covering  his  face  almost  up  to  the  eyes. 

"  I  wish  you  didn't  take  them  violent  dislikes,"  Mrs. 
Sadler  remarked ;  "  and  it's  so  often  for  those  I  re- 
spect and  like.  There's  Mr.  Hobbes,  too ;  you've  never 
a  good  word  to  say  for  Mr.  Hobbes." 

"  Oh,  I'm  sure  he's  a  good  man,"  said  Miriam  eva- 
sively, and  changed  the  subject. 

It  was  a  cold,  bright  morning  out  of  doors.  A  great 
186 


TO     THE     STARS 

scarlet  sun  climbed  up  through  the  frost-fog,  gained 
the  victory  over  it,  and  then  shone  down  out  of  a 
cloudless  sky.  In  the  meadows  every  blade  of  grass 
was  stiffened  into  a  tiny  white  spear ;  the  whole  world 
was  dazzling  with  light  and  stung  into  briskness  by 
the  nip  of  the  winter's  breath. 

Miriam  worked  away  all  the  morning  at  various 
household  tasks,  and  only  in  the  afternoon  escaped  for 
a  walk  in  the  fields.  She  took  the  long,  undulating 
road  which  leads  out  of  Hindcup  to  the  higher  coun- 
try lying  to  the  north.  It  was  a  beautiful  road,  dip- 
ping now  and  then  into  hollows  where  beech  trees 
grew,  and  then  mounting  by  long  slopes  bordered  with 
wild  holly  hedges.  Here  and  there  a  row  of  ilex  trees 
had  been  planted,  classic,  un-English-looking  trees  that 
gave  a  strange  picturesqueness  to  the  landscape.  When 
all  the  distance  was  hazy,  they  stood  out  black  and 
shapely  against  it.  Miriam  breathed  a  long  sigh  of 
relief  as  she  got  out  into  the  country,  for  she  had 
longed  for  solitude,  and  it  is  one  of  the  special  trials 
of  households  such  as  she  lived  in,  that  solitude  can 
rarely  be  procured  there.  She  stood  and  looked  round 
her  at  the  calm,  wide  country,  and  a  sudden  sense 
of  relief  and  comfort  stole  over  her.  The  frost  of  the 
morning  had  disappeared  before  the  strength  of  the 
noonday  sunshine,  and  now  a  soft  white  haze  hung 
over  the  land,  heralding  the  quick  winter  dusk.  How 
beautiful  it  all  was !  Among  all  the  change  and  sad- 
ness of  life,  here  was  one  fixed  point  that  nothing 
moved — the  beauty  of  the  world.  It  was  a  great,  un- 
deniable fact,  as  immense,  as  irrefutable  as  the  fact 
of  sin  and  misery. 

187 


THE     LADDER 

"  And  in  the  same  way,"  Miriam  thought,  "  the  hap- 
piness there  is  in  the  world  is  a  certainty  as  real  as 
the  misery  in  it;  even  if  I  do  not  share  in  this  happi- 
ness, that  is  no  reason  for  disbelieving  in  it;  as  well 
might  a  blind  man  disbelieve  in  the  light  that  other 
men  walk  by." 

As  then,  side  by  side  with  the  barrenness  of  her  own 
life,  Miriam  realized  the  excellent  beauty  of  the  ma- 
terial world,  and  the  strange  bliss  that  mortality  may 
enjoy,  she  seemed  for  the  first  time  to  catch  sight  of 
the  whole  instead  of  only  part  of  life. 

"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  write  it !  if  I  could  write  it !  " 
she  exclaimed  aloud.  She  had  walked  on,  her  eyes 
bent  on  the  ground,  looking  neither  to  the  right  hand 
nor  to  the  left,  and  in  this  way  had  not  noticed  that 
some  one  was  standing  beside  a  gate  at  the  side  of 
the  road.  It  was  Max  Courteis.  He  came  forward 
laughing,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her. 

"  Good  people  say  your  sin  always  finds  you  out ; 
what  do  you  wish  so  much  to  write  ?  "  he  said. 

"  O  Mr.  Courteis !  I — I  didn't  know  you  were 
here,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  came  down  till  Monday  to  The  Old  House — quite 
unexpectedly.  Well,  you  haven't  told  me  what  it  is 
you  wish  to  write." 

"  The  whole  of  life,  instead  of  bits  of  it,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  Rather  an  ambitious  programme,  eh  ?  Well,  how 
are  you  going  to  begin?  You  must  make  a  curious 
plum-pudding  sort  of  thing,  if  you  wish  to  get  at  the 
truth  (you  see,  one  can't  escape  Christmas,  it's  in  the 
air  and  affects  one's  metaphors),  a  lot  of  stodgy  stuff, 

188 


TO     THE     STARS 

some  plums  and  peel,  and  flaming  brandy  sauce  added 
a-top,  if  you're  a  clever  cook." 

"  I  think  I  recognize  all  the  ingredients  except  the 
brandy  sauce ;  what  does  that  stand  for  ?  " 

"  Passion,  of  course ;  without  which  you  will  never 
write  a  good  book." 

Miriam  had  been  brought  up  in  a  prim  school ;  the 
word  brought  a  blush  to  her  cheek,  but  she  recognized 
the  truth  of  Courteis's  words. 

"  Well  ?  "  he  pursued.  "  Do  you  think  you  can  sup- 
ply them  all  ?  "  He  was  very  much  amused  by  Mir- 
iam's hot  cheeks. 

"  I  don't  know ;  perhaps  I  can't,"  she  said. 

They  had  gained  the  crest  of  the  long  hill,  and 
paused  now  to  look  down  into  that  little  green  valley 
which  lies  below  the  road. 

"  Halloo !  look  at  the  hounds !  "  Courteis  exclaimed. 

A  knot  of  huntsmen  in  pink  were  gathered  where  a 
low  bridge  crossed  the  road ;  the  hounds  were  questing 
about  to  either  side — they  seemed  at  fault.  The  hunts- 
man was  calling  to  them  with  strange  cries. 

Miriam  and  Courteis  stood  to  watch  the  little  scene ; 
her  sympathies,  womanlike,  went  with  the  fox. 

"  I  hope  he'll  get  away,"  she  said. 

"  Oh,  bad  luck  if  he  does,"  said  Courteis,  true  in 
turn  to  his  sex. 

As  they  stood  thus,  two  riders  came  swiftly  across 
the  field,  a  man  and  a  woman.  The  horses  took  the 
fence  and  passed  down  the  road  like  a  flash ;  Alan  Gore 
was  one  of  the  riders,  Sophia  Hastings  the  other. 

As  they  passed,  without  noticing  her,  Miriam  turned 
aside ;  her  face  went  suddenly  white. 
13  189 


THE     LADDER 

"  Why,  that  was  Alan  Gore !  "  Courteis  exclaimed, 
glancing  at  the  girl  beside  him. 

She  turned  away  hastily. 

"  Good-by,  Mr.  Courteis ;  I  don't  wish  to  stay  and 
see  that  poor  fox  killed,"  she  said,  and  walked  away 
down  the  hill  so  quickly  that  Courteis  had  no  time  to 
reply.  He  stood  looking  after  her  for  a  minute  and 
whistled  to  himself. 

"  I  wonder  about  that  brandy  sauce,"  he  said. 

By  the  time  Miriam  got  home  it  was  almost  dark. 
It  was  past  tea  time  she  knew,  and  she  wondered  if 
her  mother  had  waited  for  her;  but  Mrs.  Sadler  ap- 
parently had  not  waited,  for  a  clink  of  china  and  the 
sound  of  voices  announced  that  she  was  entertaining 
visitors. 

Now,  as  you  may  imagine,  it  was  not  pleasant  for 
Miriam — pariah  as  she  was — when  any  of  her  cousins 
and  neighbors  chose  to  come  to  the  house.  It  would 
never  do,  however,  to  give  in  to  this  feeling,  so  she 
entered  the  parlor  as  bravely  as  might  be. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobbes  were  there,  and  the  detested 
Mr.  Smaile.  So  great  was  Miriam's  aversion  to  the 
man  that  she  involuntarily  stepped  back  at  sight  of 
him,  and  stood  for  a  moment  irresolute  in  the  door- 
way. 

"  Come  in,  my  dear ;  you're  very  late,"  said  Mrs. 
Sadler.  She  looked  flushed  and  excited;  her  cap  was 
slightly  awry. 

Miriam  greeted  her  mother's  guests  and  sat  down 
at  the  tea  table.  An  ominous  silence  fell ;  but  she  was 
almost  accustomed  to  this  token  of  disapproval. 

"  Have  you  been  out  on  one  of  your  long  walks  ?  " 
190 


TO     THE     STARS 

Mrs.  Hobbes  asked,  and  Miriam  replied  in  the  affirma- 
tive, adding  that  it  was  too  fine  a  day  to  be  spent  in- 
doors. 

"  We  have  been  cutting  up  the  sandwiches  for  the 
Christian  Institute  tea,"  Mrs.  Hobbes  said ;  "  but  I 
suppose  you  think  that  rather  a  waste  of  time  ?  " 

Miriam  made  an  evasive  answer,  and  again  silence 
fell.  Mr.  Smaile  was  stirring  his  tea  very  carefully, 
looking  down  into  his  cup  and  smiling.  He  cleared 
his  throat  and  slipped  in  a  remark  in  his  hurried,  sly 
manner : 

"  I'm  afraid  Miriam  does  not  see  eye  to  eye  with  us 
all."  The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  surprised  and  angry. 
She  had  never  heard  him  speak  of  her  by  her  Chris- 
tian name  before,  and  she  did  not  like  that  he  should 
do  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  she  said  very  coldly. 

"  Your  dear  good  mother,  here,  and  I  see  eye  to  eye 
in  everything,"  Mr.  Smaile  went  on,  and  then  added : 
"  Our  tastes,  in  fact,  are  identical." 

Miriam  looked  round  the  little  party  in  a  mystified 
way.  Something  seemed  to  be  exciting  them ;  some- 
thing she  did  not  understand. 

"  I  think  we  must  explain  to  Miriam,"  said  Mr. 
Hobbes. 

"  Explain  what  ?  Has  anything  happened  that  I 
don't  know  about  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Well,  I  daresay  it  will  come  as  rather  a  surprise 
to  you,"  said  Mr.  Hobbes.  "  The  fact  is — shall  I  go 
on,  Mrs.  Sadler  ?  " 

Mrs.  Sadler  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  smiled  in  a 
curious  way,  and  Mr.  Hobbes  went  on : 

191 


THE     LADDER 

"  The  fact  is,  that  Mr.  Smaile  and  your  mother  are 
going  to  be  married.  It's  an  old  friendship,  and  a  very 
suitable  marriage,  and  I'm  sure  will  be  for  the  hap- 
piness of  everyone  concerned." 

Miriam  rose  and  stood  upright  by  the  table,  trem- 
bling with  anger.  It  was  a  minute  or  two  before  she 
could  command  her  voice  enough  to  speak,  then  she 
turned  to  Mrs.  Sadler. 

"  Mother,"  she  said,  "  is  this  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  quite  true,  my  dear.  Smaile  and  I  settled 
it  all  last  night,"  Mrs.  Sadler  replied,  but  not  very 
stoutly.  A  braver  soul  than  hers  would  have  quailed 
before  the  anger  that  burned  in  her  daughter's 
eyes. 

"  It  can't  be  true.  You  are  my  mother,  aren't  you  ? 
You  can't  mean  to  marry  that  creature !  "  she  cried, 
regardless  of  all  civility  in  her  hot  disgust. 

"  O  Miriam !  what  a  way  to  speak ;  indeed,  if  I 
had  had  a  better  daughter  perhaps  I  would  have 
thought  twice  about  marrying  again,"  cried  Mrs. 
Sadler. 

Mr.  Hobbes  now  tried  to  pour  oil  on  the  troubled 
waters.  He  appealed  by  turns  to  Miriam  and  to  Mrs. 
Sadler,  begging  them  to  be  calm ;  but  his  words  only 
roused  the  girl  to  greater  anger. 

"  I  won't  listen  to  anything  any  of  you  have  to  say," 
she  declared.  "  There  is  no  other  side  to  the  case ; 
the  whole  thing  is  odious." 

"  Now,  Miriam,  don't  set  yourself  against  your  poor, 
dear  mother,"  Mrs.  Hobbes  broke  in.  "  You  might 
all  be  so  happy  together,  you  and  your  mother  and 
Smaile ;  what  with  the  something  he  has,  and  the  some- 

192 


TO     THE     STARS 

thing  she  has,  'tis  a  most  comfortable  arrangement, 
to  my  mind." 

"  There,  you  have  told  the  truth  at  last,  Mrs. 
Hobbes,"  Miriam  cried.  "  It's  my  mother's  money, 
such  as  it  is,  that  he  wants.  Yes,  Mr.  Smaile,  if  my 
mother  were  very  poor  you  would  not  be  so  anxious 
to  marry  her." 

"  This  is  more  than  I  can  stand,"  said  Mr.  Smaile, 
rising  hastily  at  Miriam's  last  words,  and  addressing 
Mrs.  Sadler.  "  If  your  daughter  is  going  to  insult  me, 
it  will  be  better  for  me  to  go.  Good  night,  my  dear. 
Good  night,  Mrs.  Hobbes;  I  don't  like  to  cause  fam- 
ily dissensions."  He  scuttled  to  the  door  as  a  cur  flies 
from  a  volley  of  stones. 

"  Miriam,"  said  Mr.  Hobbes  very  solemnly.  "  Mir- 
iam, you  are  a  firebrand." 

Mrs.  Hobbes  was  awed  into  silence,  and  Mrs.  Sadler 
wept. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go,  too,"  said  Miriam 
to  the  remaining  guests.  "  I  don't  see  what  outsiders 
have  to  do  with  this.  Mother  and  I  must  settle  it 
together." 

"  Oh,  well,  I'm  not  one  to  stay  where  I'm  not 
wanted,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbes,  flouncing  to  the  door. 

Miriam  waited  till  they  were  gone,  and  then  came 
and  sat  down  by  her  mother. 

"  Now  that  you  are  alone  with  me,  will  you  listen 
to  what  I  have  to  say  ?  "  she  asked. 

Mrs.  Sadler  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Where's  the  use,  my  dear  ?  You  do  take  such 
violent  views !  " 

Miriam  began  her  argument.    But  before  it  was  half 

193 


THE     LADDER 

done,  she  recognized  the  futility  of  it.  Mr.  Smaile 
had  appealed  to  that  strongest  weakness  of  the  female 
heart — vanity — and  nothing  that  could  be  said  weighed 
for  a  moment  against  his  flattery. 

"  You  must  remember,  mother,  that  you  are  elderly 
now ;  it  is  your  money  he  wants,"  she  repeated ;  but 
this  plain  statement  did  not  in  the  least  convince  Mrs. 
Sadler. 

"  You  may  say  so ;  but  Smaile  has  often  told  me 
he  thought  me  a  very  handsome  woman  yet,"  said 
Mrs.  Sadler. 

"O  mother!  he  just  said  that  to  please  you,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  Well,  I'm  sure  your  father  often  said  the  same," 
poor  Mrs.  Sadler  cried,  in  self-defense. 

"  But  that  was  thirty  years  ago,  mother " 

"  And  then  Smaile  is  such  an  earnest  Christian — " 
Mrs.  Sadler  began,  passing  on  to  another  plea.  But 
her  daughter  would  not  hear  this  for  a  moment. 

"  Mother,  how  can  you  take  Christ's  name  in  vain 
like  that !  "  she  cried.  "  Christians  are  those  who  fol- 
low His  example.  Did  Christ  scheme  and  plot  for 
money,  and  flatter  women  ?  " 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  you  do  say  the  most  blasphemous 
things  as  ever  were  said !  "  cried  Mrs.  Sadler. 

Thus  to  and  fro  their  argument  went,  always  com- 
ing back  to  the  same  conclusion.  Nothing  would  turn 
Mrs.  Sadler  from  her  determination  to  marry  again. 

"  Very  well,  then,  mother ;  I  shall  leave  you.  I 
would  never  even  try  to  live  in  the  same  house  with 
Mr.  Smaile,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Well,  remember  it's  not  me  that  turned  you  out, 
194 


TO     THE     STARS 

nor  yet  Mr.  Smaile,  for  he  spoke  very  handsomely 
about  you,  and  how  he  hoped  we'd  all  be  happy  to- 
gether." 

"  I  shall  take  the  blame,  mother,"  said  Miriam.  She 
felt  a  sudden  sense  of  relief.  The  place  had  been  too 
straight  for  her  for  years;  now  a  decision  had  been 
forced  upon  her — she  must  leave  home. 

"  I  shall  go  out  into  the  world  and  work  and — 
and — "  she  thought. 

How  often  in  conjecture  we  come  up  to  this  "  and 
— and  " — the  unknown,  the  unknowable — that  closed 
door  against  which  we  beat  ourselves  in  vain! 


195 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

WHAT  to  do  next?  Where  to  go?  Who  to  ask 
advice  from?  All  these  questions  crowded  upon  Mir- 
iam. That  she  would  go  to  London  was  obvious ;  but 
where  in  London?  How  could  she  live  alone  there? 
Who  would  be  her  helper  ?  There  was  Delia  Gore,  of 
course ;  she  was  the  first  person  to  consult ;  but  then  it 
was  so  difficult  to  see  Delia  at  the  Manor.  Miriam  de- 
cided to  write  to  her  instead.  But  in  the  meantime  the 
news  of  Miriam's  conduct  to  Mr.  Smaile  had  spread  to 
all  the  cousins,  and  each  in  turn  came  to  remonstrate 
with  her.  She  scarcely  made  a  pretense  of  listening  to 
these  remonstrances,  and  replied  to  them  all  in  the  same 
words : 

"  What  you  say  may  be  true ;  but  I  won't  live  on  in 
this  house  with  Mr.  Smaile.  I  am  going  to  leave 
home." 

Aunt  Pillar,  with  her  brutal  practicality,  was  the  first 
person  who  confronted  Miriam  with  the  simple  ques- 
tion :  "  And  what  are  you  going  to  live  on  ?  Your  own 
twenty  pounds  a  year,  I  suppose  ?  You  won't  manage 
very  well  on  that.  I  doubt  you'll  have  to  come  back 
to  living  with  your  mother  and  old  Smaile  before 
long." 

"  I'd  rather  starve,"  said  Miriam  recklessly. 

"  You've  not  tried  it  yet,"  was  Aunt  Pillar's  grimly 
true  retort. 

196 


TO     THE     STARS 

Thus  brought  to  book,  Miriam  faced  the  difficulties 
of  her  position.  She  had,  as  Aunt  Pillar  said,  twenty 
pounds  a  year  of  her  own ;  she  had  also  made  a  certain 
amount  by  the  obnoxious  contributions  to  The  Advance 
Guard;  but  she  was  too  level-headed  to  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  she  could  support  herself  by  writing,  es- 
pecially if  she  tried  to  do  so. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  knew  my  living  didn't  depend  upon  it, 
and  if  I  might  take  my  own  time  over  the  work,  I 
might  make  money ;  but  never  if  I  felt  I  was  depend- 
ent on  it,"  she  said  to  herself. 

The  only  thing  to  be  done  then  was  to  get  her 
mother  to  consent  to  give  her  enough  to  live  upon. 
Miriam  called  in  the  help  of  a  solicitor,  who  managed 
their  small  money  affairs,  and  represented  to  him  that 
it  was  impossible  for  her  to  live  at  home,  and  impos- 
sible for  her,  as  yet,  to  support  herself ;  could  he  pre- 
vail upon  Mrs.  Sadler  to  allow  her  fifty  pounds  a  year 
to  live  upon  in  London?  Mrs.  Sadler's  income  was 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  not  princely,  but 
as  Miriam  represented  to  the  solicitor,  if  her  board 
were  removed  from  the  household  expenses,  surely  she 
might  have  fifty  pounds  to  live  upon  elsewhere?  It 
did  not  seem  much  to  ask  of  a  parent,  as  the  solicitor 
agreed ;  but  the  question  was  whether  the  parent  would 
see  this?  Not  so  long  ago  Mrs.  Sadler  had,  equally 
with  Aunt  Pillar,  refused  her  daughter  the  means  to 
go  away  from  home  to  study ;  how  was  it  to  be  sup- 
posed that  she  would  consent  to  this  new  scheme? 
Miriam  lived  through  several  weeks  of  horrible  sus- 
pense; then,  as  is  often  the  case,  help  came  from 
where  it  was  least  expected.  But  she  would  not  have 

197 


THE     LADDER 

been  flattered  if  she  could  have  heard  the  conversation 
between  her  mother  and  Mr.  Smaile  which  decided 
her  fate. 

"  Well,  Priscilla,  have  you  come  to  any  agreement 
with  this  daughter  of  yours  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed ;  how  could  I  come  to  any 
decision?  She's  been  and  consulted  Mr.  Banks,  the 
solicitor !  " 

"  Well,  Priscilla,  if  you  take  my  advice  you  get  rid 
of  Miriam  as  soon  as  possible.  There  will  be  no  peace 
in  the  house  with  her  in  it.  I  advise  you  to  let  her  go." 

"  But  fifty  pounds  a  year  is  a  large  sum,  and  every- 
thing so  expensive  nowadays !  " 

"  Peace  is  cheap  at  fifty  pounds,  Priscilla ;  let  the  girl 
go.  We  will  do  very  well  on  your  two  hundred  pounds 
and  my  hundred  and  fifty  put  together.  Let  her  go  and 
welcome." 

Here  Mrs.  Sadler  began  to  shed  a  few  natural  tears 
at  the  thought  of  her  daughter's  departure.  Moreover, 
she  began  to  see  other  lions  in  the  way.  Where  was 
Miriam  to  go?  Who  would  look  after  her?  She 
was  so  self-willed,  so  unlike  other  young  women  of 
her  age. 

"  You  have  cousins  in  Maida  Vale,  have  you  not, 
Priscilla  ?  "  Mr.  Smaile  suggested.  But  this  sugges- 
tion was  impracticable. 

"  To  be  sure  I  have ;  but  the  girl  don't  get  on  so 
well  with  her  cousins  in  Hindcup  that  she  should  get 
on  better  with  cousins  in  Maida  Vale,"  wailed  Mrs. 
Sadler.  Still,  the  main  point  had  been  decided  by  this 
conversation,  and  that  night  Mrs.  Sadler  told  Miriam 
she  might  have  fifty  pounds  a  year  ("  all  through  the 

198 


TO     THE     STARS 

goodness  of  Mr.  Smaile"),  if  she  could  live  on  that 
sum. 

Miriam,  pending  this  decision,  had  been  correspond- 
ing with  Delia  Gore  on  the  practical  side  of  the  case. 
Delia  suggested  that  an  old  maid  of  her  aunt's  would 
take  Miriam  to  board  with  her.  Cochrane  was  the 
woman's  name,  and  Delia  vouched  for  her  entire  re- 
spectability. Her  terms  would  be  low,  and  her  house 
was  comfortable. 

Miriam  had  even  written  to  Cochrane  and  found  out 
that  she  would  be  glad  to  receive  her.  So,  when  Mrs. 
Sadler  announced  her  decision,  she  had  a  plan  to  un- 
fold. Her  mother  received  it  coldly,  and  went  off  to 
consult  with  Maggie  Broadman  about  it. 

"  There's  really  no  saying  what  Miriam  mayn't  do 
now,"  Maggie  said,  shaking  her  head.  "  Going  off,  no 
one  knows  where,  to  live  with  no  one  knows  who,  and 
write  no  one  knows  what."  But  Aunt  Pillar  contra- 
dicted one  clause  of  this  indictment. 

"  I  know  Cochrane,"  she  said.  "  She  was  maid  to 
old  Lady  Gore  of  Replands;  one  of  them  Scotch 
women  as  haven't  too  many  manners,  but  a  good  head 
and  a  good  heart.  Miriam  will  do  well  enough  with 
her.  She  refused  Jenkins,  the  Gores'  old  butler.  I 
never  knew  why.  He  retired  on  his  money  after  being 
thirty-five  years  in  the  family,  and  set  up  a  temper- 
ance hotel  in  Victoria  somewhere.  Well,  it  was  then 
he  made  Cochrane  an  offer,  and  she  wouldn't  have  him, 
and  she'll  die  an  old  maid." 

It  was  something  to  know  this  impeccably  respect- 
able life-history  of  the  woman  with  whom  Miriam 
proposed  to  lodge;  but  it  was,  indeed,  impossible,  as 

199 


THE     LADDER 

Maggie  had  said,  to  foretell  what  she  might  choose 
to  write.  "  It  must  be  about  us,"  the  cousins  agreed. 
And  Emmie,  who  was  more  simple  than  her  sisters, 
and  had  more  quickly  forgiven  Miriam's  former  of- 
fense, tried  to  make  her  swear  silence  as  to  her  and 
Dr.  Pratt's  affairs. 

"  Won't  you  promise  not  to  write  all  about  me  and 
Sydney?"  she  entreated.  "Sydney  says  he  always 
knows  you  are  taking  notes  of  what  he  says,  and  if  you 
published  all  about  our  courtship,  all  I've  told  you,  I 
wouldn't  know  where  to  look." 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid,  Emmie ;  I  won't  write  any- 
thing about  you,"  said  Miriam ;  and  actually  kissed  the 
empty  little  face  that  looked  up  so  entreatingly. 

But  when  it  was  definitely  settled  that  she  must  leave 
Hindcup,  Miriam  felt  some  twinges  of  homesickness. 
When  the  old  church  bells  broke  suddenly  into  a  crash 
of  delicious  sound,  or  as  she  counted  the  heavy  strokes 
of  the  clock  that  measured  out  the  hours  of  the  placid 
Hindcup  days,  a  rush  of  tears  would  come  to  her  eyes ; 
for  home  is  home. 

London  seemed  far  away  and  strange — her  only 
friends  in  it  the  Gores  and  Max  Courteis,  and  she 
must  not  be  too  dependent  on  either  of  them.  Would 
it  be  possible  for  her  to  make  some  sort  of  foothold  for 
herself?  And  then,  while  these  fears  were  crowding 
over  her  mind,  came  a  letter  from  Delia  Gore  which 
added  a  new  fear.  Delia  was  going  abroad  with  her 
uncle,  and  would  not  be  in  London  at  all  that  year. 

"  So,"  thought  Miriam,  "  I  shall  practically  be  alone. 
I  shall  never  see  Mr.  Gore  when  Delia  is  away,  and 
what  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courteis  to  me  ?  "  Thus  it 

200 


TO     THE     STARS 

happens  often  in  life.  We  say  "  This  or  that  one  will 
help  me,"  "  This  or  that  circumstance  will  aid  me/' 
and  again  and  again  we  are  flung  back  upon  ourselves, 
surprised  and  diffident,  to  learn  the  hard  lesson  of  self- 
dependence. 


201 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXIX 

COCHRANE,  the  maid  who  had  so  rashly  and  proudly 
refused  a  butler,  lived  in  that  region  made  classic  by  the 
residence  there  of  the  Carlyles.  Her  house  was  very 
small  and  dark,  but  not  dismal,  because  it  was  old  and 
had  none  of  the  vulgarities  of  jerry  building.  Coch- 
rane  met  Miriam  at  the  door  on  the  afternoon  of  her 
arrival — a  dark  February  afternoon  it  was — and  held 
out  her  hand  in  welcome.  She  was  a  tall  woman,  and 
had  a  curious  way  of  always  looking  down,  even  when 
she  addressed  one,  yet  there  was  nothing  furtive  in 
her  appearance ;  the  dropped  lids  only  gave  her  an  in- 
scrutable expression. 

"I  wonder  why  she  refused  the  butler?"  Miriam 
thought,  as  they  went  into  the  dark  little  parlor  to- 
gether. 

"  You'll  be  ready  for  tea,"  said  Cochrane.  "  It's  a 
tiresome  journey  from  Hindcup;  I  used  to  take  it 
many  a  time  long  ago ;  and  how  is  Mrs.  Pillar  ?  " 

Miriam  sat  by  the  fire  and  sipped  her  tea,  and  felt 
less  forlorn.  The  sound  of  her  aunt's  well-known 
name  was  reassuring. 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Pillar  is  quite  well,"  she  said.  "  She 
asked  me  to  give  you  her  '  regards.' "  Unintention- 
ally she  spoke  with  a  satirical  intonation  which  did  not 
escape  her  listener.  Cochrane  looked  up  for  just  a 
moment,  and  then  let  her  eyelids  drop  again. 

202 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  You  haven't  been  getting  on  very  well  at  home  of 
late,  I  hear  ?  "  she  said.  Miriam  did  not  know  whether 
to  be  glad  or  sorry  that  her  character  had  been  sent 
before  her  in  this  way.  She  concluded  that  it  was 
perhaps  best  that  Cochrane  should  understand  how 
things  stood. 

"  I  have  been  getting  on  very  badly,"  she  admitted. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you'll  succeed  in  what  you've  set  out 
to  do.  I  don't  like  to  see  young  people  disappointed. 
Mrs.  Pillar  wrote  me  that  you  had  been  writing  for 
magazines ;  she  seemed  not  very  well  pleased  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam.    "  They  were  all  displeased." 

"  And  you  think  it  will  be  better  to  live  alone  and 
write,  than  be  comfortably  at  home  with  your 
mother  ?  " 

"  I  can't  be  comfortable  at  home  now." 

"  Home's  home,"  said  Cochrane  laconically ;  and  she 
added :  "  But  I  always  think  young  people  should  be 
allowed  to  try  their  own  way;  there's  no  getting  ex- 
perience secondhand." 

It  did  not  sound  encouraging;  but  something  about 
the  woman  breathed  a  certain  unspoken  sympathy 
to  Miriam.  Cochrane  rose  and  laid  down  her  cup, 
saying : 

"  I  was  young  myself  once,  and  I  don't  forget  it. 
We  all  make  our  mistakes.  Well,  if  you're  ready,  I'll 
show  you  your  room  upstairs."  She  preceded  Mir- 
iam up  the  steep  little  staircase,  and  showed  her  into 
a  pleasant  south-looking  room.  There  was  an  old- 
fashioned  tent  bed  in  one  corner,  and  a  table  in  the 
window. 

"  That  was  one  of  her  ladyship's  beds  at  Replands," 
203 


THE     LADDER 

said  Cochrane,  pausing  and  taking  one  of  the  faded 
chintz  hangings  in  her  hand  almost  lovingly.  "  That 
and  the  chest  of  drawers  both  came  from  Replands; 
they  give  a  fine  look  to  the  room.  Well,  I  hope  you'll 
be  comfortable.  I'll  leave  you  to  unpack  now." 

Miriam  did  not  unpack  at  once,  however.  She  sat 
down  by  the  window  and  gazed  out  at  the  roofs,  and 
wondered  what  life  would  bring  her  in  this  little  back- 
water of  a  house.  She  wondered  if  she  had  been  a  fool 
to  come  here. 

"  How  can  I  write  anything  worth  while  ? "  she 
asked  herself  bitterly.  "  None  of  my  poor  little  ex- 
periences are  worth  putting  down  on  paper.  If  God, 
who  holds  life  in  His  hand,  would  send  me  some  of 
the  great  experiences  that  other  people  have,  I  might 
then  do  something  with  them.  But  now  I  am  like  a 
sharp  knife  that  has  nothing  to  cut." 

Well,  at  any  rate,  she  thought,  she  had  set  her  feet 
free  by  this  break  with  home.  It  would  now  be  possible 
to  regulate  her  life  as  she  chose,  to  do  what  she  thought 
right  herself,  and  what  it  seemed  worth  while  to 
do.  She  took  out  her  little  blank  book,  in  which  so 
many  resolutions  had  been  recorded,  and  wrote  down 
her  thoughts : 

"  I  am  going  in  future  to  regulate  my  life  and  con- 
duct entirely  by  what  I  believe  to  be  right,  without 
reference  to  what  other  people  believe  to  be  right.  For 
it  seems  to  me  that  we  are  too  apt  to  live  by  rote,  going 
along  commonly  accepted  lines,  instead  of  thinking 
out  what  we  individually  believe  to  be  the  best  way 
of  living.  I  go  to  church,  for  instance,  not  because 
I  earnestly  believe  it  right  to  do  so,  but  because  most 

204 


TO     THE     STARS 

so-called  respectable  people  are  in  the  habit  of  going 
there.  In  future  I  shall  not  go  to  church  unless  I 
earnestly  long  to  do  so,  and  believe  that  there  I  shall 
see  God." 

This  revolutionary  programme  filled  Miriam's 
soul  with  a  sort  of  solemn  joy.  Farther  on  she 
wrote : 

"  To  walk  straightforward  surely  must  always  be 
right;  to  follow  our  inner  voice,  instead  of  the  voice 
of  other  people.  The  worst  sin  that  I  seem  to  myself 
to  be  in  danger  of  committing  is  wasting  life ;  not 
making  the  best  of  it.  I  may  never  be  able  to  do  any- 
thing in  the  least  valuable ;  but  if  I  have  honestly  at- 
tempted all  I  can,  I  need  not  be  ashamed  to  give  in  the 
account  of  my  stewardship.  The  story  of  the  unjust 
steward  has  always  thrilled  me;  I  have  never  heard 
the  words  '  Give  an  account  of  thy  stewardship ' 
without  the  strangest  feeling  of  longing.  Oh,  how  I 
wish  to  give  in  my  account!  My  whole  connections 
are  blaming  me  just  now;  calling  me  unnatural  and 
wrong-headed.  I  should  not  care;  I  am  doing  the 
best  I  see  to  do." 

But  Miriam  was  to  find  that  it  was  not  so  easy  as 
she  imagined  to  live  without  reference  to  other  people's 
ideas.  How  familiar  it  seemed  on  Sunday  morning 
to  hear  Cochrane  say  to  her : 

"  What  church  do  you  propose  to  attend  ?  Perhaps 
you  will  come  with  me.  I  go  to  the  City  Temple."  It 
cost  her  quite  a  pang  to  reply  as  she  did : 

"  I  do  not  think  I  shall  go  to  church  at  all  just  now. 
I  am  not  sure  that  I  approve  of  churches,  and  until 
I  see  clearly  on  the  subject  I  shall  stay  at  home." 
14  205 


THE     LADDER 

"Ahem!  well,  perhaps  you're  right;  but  I've  never 
got  any  harm  at  the  City  Temple,"  was  Cochrane's 
rejoinder. 

"  That's  a  negative  way  of  putting  it,"  laughed  Mir- 
iam. She  stood  at  the  window  and  watched  Cochrane 
walk  away  down  the  little  street.  A  feeling  of  slight 
vacancy  came  over  her.  What  would  she  do  with  her- 
self for  the  next  two  or  three  hours?  Just  then  a 
messenger  boy  came  along,  ran  up  the  steps  and  rat- 
tled a  letter  into  the  box,  and  gave  a  huge  pull  at  the 
door  bell.  The  little  maidservant,  who  was  dressing 
for  church,  flew  downstairs  like  a  whirlwind,  and  ap- 
peared at  the  parlor  door  a  minute  later  with  a  letter, 
which  she  handed  to  Miriam. 

She  opened  the  note  in  some  surprise.  It  was  from 
Max  Courteis,  begging  her  to  come  to  their  house  that 
afternoon. 

"  There  will  be  a  lot  of  clever  people  here,  people 
you  won't  meet  every  day  in  Hindcup ;  no,  nor  in  Lon- 
don, either.  I've  asked  a  friend  of  ours,  Mrs.  Hughes, 
to  drive  you  here ;  she  will  call  for  you  at  four  o'clock, 
and  take  you  home,  too.  Be  sure  to  come,"  Courteis 
wrote. 

Oh,  delightful,  delightful !  to  get  away  from  her 
solitary  musings  and  her  intercourse  with  the  austere 
Cochrane,  into  this  interesting,  clever  world !  Mir- 
iam was  beginning  to  have  more  confidence  in  herself, 
so  she  did  not  tremble  as  of  yore  at  the  prospect  of 
"  a  lot  of  people." 

She  gave  a  random  thought  to  her  clothes ;  but 
since  Delia's  reformation,  her  dress  had  been  much 
more  presentable,  so  even  this  caused  her  no  annoy- 

206 


TO     THE     STARS 

ance.  When  Cochrane  returned  from  church  she 
found  Miriam  quite  animated. 

"  I  am  going  to  the  Courteises'  this  afternoon,"  she 
said ;  "  it  will  be  interesting." 

"  What  would  your  mother  say  to  Sunday  outings  ?  " 
Cochrane  asked  severely. 

"  I  am  afraid  she  would  not  approve  of  them,"  Mir- 
iam admitted.  "  But  I — don't  you  think  one  should 
do  what  one  thinks  right  one's  self?  not  what  other 
people  approve  ?  " 

"  My  stars !  You  are  a  queer  girl,"  Cochrane  ex- 
claimed. "  And  perhaps  you're  in  the  right.  I  won- 
der could  I  do  your  hair  better  for  you  ?  " 

"Oh,  thank  you.  But  isn't  it  all  right?"  Miriam 
said  absently. 

"  No,  it's  all  wrong.  I  used  to  do  their  hair  for 
half  of  the  young  ladies  that  came  to  Replands.  Her 
ladyship  had  half  a  dozen  young  nieces  too  poor  to 
have  maids,  and  I  always  did  my  best  for  every  one  of 
them.  Her  ladyship  always  said  it  was  me  made  the 
match  between  Miss  Elsie  and  Mr.  Parke.  Miss  Elsie 
had  but  a  poor  head  of  hair,  but  I  made  the  most  of 
it.  Well,  shall  I  try  my  hand  on  you  ?  " 

As  she  spoke,  the  good  woman  stepped  up  to  Miriam 
and  passed  a  professional  hand  over  her  hair. 

"Just  stiff  with  hairpins — tut,  tut!  and  pulled  that 
tight  and  straight  back !  Come  upstairs,  and  I'll  make 
a  different  head  of  it.  Not  that  I'm  one  that  approves 
of  Sunday  outings,  mind,  but  let  young  people  have 
their  chances,  I  say." 

"  When  I  was  with  Miss  Gore,"  Miriam  said,  sub- 
mitting her  head  into  Cochrane's  hands,  "  she  did  my 

207 


THE     LADDER 

hair  for  me  once,  and  made  me  look  almost  pretty; 
but  I  can't  manage  it  myself." 

"Tut,  tut!  I'll  soon  teach  you.  Yes,  it's  mostly 
dressing  that  makes  half  the  ladies  in  society.  Dress 
them  badly,  and  let  them  do  their  hair  like  yours,  and 
no  one  would  look  at  them  twice.  Come  a  bit  nearer 
the  light,  please.  I'd  like  to  see  you  able  to  make  the 
most  of  yourself;  another  of  the  long  hairpins,  please. 
There !  You're  another  woman  altogether !  " 

She  held  the  glass  to  Miriam  as  she  spoke,  and 
stepped  backward  to  survey  her  handiwork. 

The  girl  looked  at  herself  solemnly. 

"  It's  beautiful,"  she  said ;  "  and  thank  you  very 
much  for  doing  it ;  but  I  must  rely  on  what  is  inside 
my  head  to  please  people,  if  I  can  do  so.  I  shall  never 
learn  to  make  the  most  of  myself." 

"  Well,  I've  had  a  heap  to  do  with  the  dressing  of 
ladies,  in  my  day,"  mused  Cochrane.  "  And  sometimes 
I've  thought  that  a  lady  owed  everything  to  her  ap- 
pearance, and  another  time  I've  thought  them  things 
mattered  no  more  than  that."  She  snapped  her  fin- 
gers contemptuously. 

"  Yes,  I  expect  it's  the  mind  that  really  matters 
most,"  said  Miriam. 

Cochrane  sat  down  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Miss  Sadler,"  she  said,  "  I  knew  your  Aunt  Pillar, 
and  I've  seen  your  mother,  and  I  want  to  know  where 
you  get  your  ideas  from?  I  thought  when  Mrs.  Pil- 
lar wrote  to  me,  that  it  would  only  be  an  obligement 
to  her  to  put  you  up  for  a  time,  for,  thinks  I,  '  set  her 
up  with  her  writing  and  dear  knows  what,  I  won't 
stand  her  for  long.'  But  you're  different,  some- 

208 


TO     THE     STARS 

how,  from  what  I  expected.  You're  superior  to  your 
class,  and  I'm  glad  you  should  be.  You're  not  set  up 
nor  disagreeable.  It's  the  queerest  thing  I've  ever 
seen,  and  now  you've  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  with  this 
you  say — it's  the  mind  makes  the  difference." 

"  Oh,  don't  say  that,  please,"  Miriam  cried.  She 
felt  it  awkward  to  be  thus  labeled  as  superior  to  her 
own  people. 

"  It's  true,  all  the  same,"  Cochrane  persisted.  "  And 
I  wonder  what  the  end  will  be.  Well,  there's  a  ring 
at  the  door  bell.  It  will  be  your  friend  in  her  carriage. 
See  have  you  got  a  pocket  handkerchief,  and  what 
about  gloves  ?  " 

Satisfied  on  these  points,  Cochrane  watched  Miriam 
downstairs,  and  then  stood  at  the  window  until  the 
carriage  had  driven  away. 

"  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece  and  Mrs.  Sadler's  daughter !  " 
she  muttered  to  herself. 


209 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXX 

IT  would  be  hard  to  say  whether  this  afternoon  con- 
tained more  pleasure  or  pain  for  Miriam. 

There  were,  as  Courteis  had  said  there  would  be, 
many  people  at  his  house  who  were  not  to  be  met  with 
every  day.  Miriam  gazed  at  them  with  profound  in- 
terest, and  felt  it  a  great  privilege  to  be  allowed  to 
speak  to  them.  But,  alas !  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion, she  came  up  in  herself  against  that  sort  of  bed- 
rock of  ignorance  which  is  the  sad  inheritance  of  the 
uncultivated  classes.  "  I  have  nothing  but  my  wits 
to  trust  to,"  she  thought  sorrowfully,  unheeding  the 
fact  that  culture  may  be  acquired  and  wits  never  can 
be.  Depressed  by  this  sense  of  her  own  ignorance  on 
points  that  seemed  a  matter  of  every-day  life  to  other 
people,  she  shrank  into  herself  and  looked  and  listened 
instead  of  speaking. 

There  were  several  very  clever,  well-dressed  women 
there,  brilliant  talkers,  after  a  fashion — a  fashion  that 
Miriam  had  never  heard  before.  She  listened  to  their 
scintillations  with  surprise  and  admiration.  Several 
times  her  opinion  was  asked  for  upon  some  new  book 
or  play,  and  each  time  she  replied  gravely  that  she 
knew  nothing  about  what  they  were  discussing. 

Then  Courteis  came  to  her  assistance. 

"  Those  who  write  books  should  never  be  expected 
to  read  them,"  he  said.  "  Miss  Sadler  is  too  busy  writ- 

210 


TO     THE     STARS 

ing  down  her  thoughts  for  our  amusement  to  read 
what  other  people  have  written  to  amuse  her,  isn't 
that  it  ?  " 

But  Miriam  would  not  accept  his  aid.  She  shook 
her  head. 

"  No,  Mr.  Courteis.  I  am  afraid  that  isn't  it  at  all. 
I  have  not  had  many  opportunities  of  reading  new 
books ;  that  is  why  I  know  so  little  about  them," 
she  said,  turning  bravely  to  the  little  knot  of  lis- 
teners. She  would  not  sail  under  false  colors  any- 
where. 

"What  a  blessing!"  ejaculated  Courteis,  and  made 
them  all  laugh;  but  somehow  Miriam  did  not  appre- 
ciate the  blessedness  of  her  ignorance  at  that  moment. 
She  would  have  forfeited  all  her  native  intelligence 
and  power  of  observation  for  that  capacity  for  glib, 
smart  utterance  on  current  subjects  which  the  women 
beside  her  possessed.  They  seemed  to  her  to  be  amaz- 
ingly clever  and  original,  whereas  their  cleverness  was 
quite  unoriginal,  a  sort  of  trick  merely,  caught  and 
kept  up  between  them. 

Mrs.  Hughes,  the  lady  who  had  driven  Miriam  there, 
was  specially  lively.  She  was  a  plain,  sallow  little 
woman,  but  extraordinarily  vivacious,  and  a  breeze  of 
laughter  always  followed  her  speeches. 

"  How  delightful  it  would  be  to  be  vivacious,"  Mir- 
iam thought  enviously.  "  I  see  all  the  ridiculous  side 
of  things,  but  I  can't  make  other  people  see  them  when 
I  speak ;  I  need  to  write  them  down ;  I  am  as  solemn  as 
an  owl  when  I  talk." 

Mrs.  Hughes  chose  to  be  very  agreeable  to  Miriam. 
She  complimented  her  on  her  clever  work  in  The  Ad- 

211 


THE     LADDER 

vance  Guard,  and  begged  her  to  come  and  see  her  at 
her  own  home. 

"  You  must  come  and  teach  me  to  think  instead  of 
talking  and  reading,"  she  said,  with  a  vivacious  glance 
at  Courteis.  "  You  must  come  to  me  next  Sunday." 

Miriam  felt  an  instant  wish  to  refuse  the  invitation, 
but  she  did  not  know  very  well  how  to  do  so. 

"  Thank  you,  you  are  very  kind,"  she  said  primly, 
and  then  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Hughes  would  mimic  her 
precise  tones  when  she  got  home.  She  had  heard  her 
mimicking  some  dear  friend  a  few  minutes  before. 

Just  at  that  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
a  man  came  in  whom  everyone  turned  to  look  at.  It 
seemed  to  Miriam  that  she  had  seen  him  before,  and 
yet  she  did  not  know  who  he  was.  His  eyes  were  so 
large  and  black  as  to  look  almost  frightful  in  his  boy- 
ish face,  which  had  an  expression  of  painful  concen- 
tration. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  Mrs.  Hughes. 

"  Why,  it's  Herman,  of  course.  Have  you  never 
heard  him  play  ?  "  she  answered  incredulously. 

"  Oh,  I  should  have  remembered ;  the  man  in  the 
picture,  of  course,"  Miriam  said,  turning  round  to 
compare  it  with  the  original  as  she  spoke.  When  she 
looked  round  again,  Mrs.  Hughes  had  left  her  seat, 
and  darted  across  the  room  to  where  Herman  stood ; 
then,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has  caught  her  prey,  she 
led  him  to  a  corner  and  began  to  talk  to  him.  Miriam 
was  near  enough  to  hear  what  they  said,  though  it 
was  all  Greek  to  her ;  it  was  about  music,  the  names  of 
unknown  musicians — unknown  to  her — criticisms  of 
their  work,  and  so  on.  The  criticisms  were  very  clever, 

212 


TO     THE     STARS 

and  showed  a  great  knowledge  of  music,  had  Miriam 
known  enough  to  understand  them ;  but  she  did  not. 

She  listened,  however,  with  profound  and  envious 
admiration  of  this  woman's  knowledge  and  cleverness, 
wondering  where  she  had  learned  it  all.  But  sud- 
denly she  noticed  that  Herman  was  not  listening  to  a 
word  that  was  said  to  him;  and  then  he  spoke  out 
across  the  room  to  his  host,  in  a  sweet,  foreign- 
sounding  voice : 

"  Max !  Max !    I  will  play  for  you,  if  you  wish." 

Mrs.  Hughes,  for  a  moment,  looked  incredibly  of- 
fended, then  she  crossed  over  to  where  Miriam  sat  and 
settled  herself  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  saying  in  a 
purring  voice: 

"  Now  we  shall  really  enjoy  ourselves.  He's  a  won- 
derful, wonderful  creature,  though  he  has  such  terrible 
manners.  I  suppose  they  are  one  of  the  penalties  of 
genius." 

Herman  had  sent  for  his  violin,  and  was  picking 
away  at  the  strings  in  an  offhand  way,  as  he  waited 
for  the  accompanist  to  get  ready.  He  looked  around 
at  the  people  gathered  before  him,  in  the  funny,  un- 
concerned manner  of  a  man  who  has  lived  constantly 
before  the  public.  Now  and  then  he  allowed  his  eyes 
to  rest  curiously  on  one  face  or  another  for  a  moment, 
but  generally  he  passed  them  over  with  as  little  remark 
as  if  they  were  so  many  chairs. 

When  the  tuning-up  was  finished  he  began  to  play. 
Miriam  had,  of  course,  never  heard  anything  like  it 
in  her  whole  life.  The  technical  skill  of  this  incom- 
parable artist  was  entirely  lost  upon  her  supreme  ig- 
norance ;  but  perhaps,  for  that  very  reason,  the  mean- 

213 


THE     LADDER 

ing  of  the  music  seemed  extraordinarily  plain  to  her. 
While  other  people  marveled  over  the  impossibilities 
of  his  bowing,  she  heard  what  it  expressed.  She  did 
not  understand  all  the  difficulties  that  were  being 
overcome  by  these  clever  fingers ;  but  she  knew  that 
this  man  was  expressing  through  this  medium  a  thou- 
sand things  she  had  felt  and  never  been  able  to  say. 
She  listened  and  listened,  and  drop  after  drop  two 
great  tears  splashed  down  upon  her  dress,  yet  she 
never  knew  that  she  was  weeping. 

The  music  stopped,  and  Mrs.  Hughes  began  to  say 
something  very  clever  and  apposite  about  it,  just  what 
most  people  would  have  liked  to  say  if  they  had  known 
how  to ;  but  Herman  did  not  listen  to  a  word  that  she 
said.  He  walked  straight  up  to  where  Miriam  sat,  and 
stood  before  her,  violin  in  hand. 

"  This  lady  understands,"  he  said.  "  This  is  the 
critique  I  like ;  look  there !  "  He  pointed  down  with 
his  bow  to  the  tear-stain  on  Miriam's  dress,  and  she, 
overwhelmed  with  confusion,  did  not  know  where  to 
turn — the  eyes  of  the  whole  room  were  on  her. 

"  I  will  play  again — for  these  tears,"  said  Herman. 
He  turned  away  abruptly,  took  up  his  violin  and 
played  a  few  notes,  and  Miriam  felt  that  observation 
was  removed  from  her.  Courteis  nodded  and  smiled 
across  the  room  to  reassure  her.  Mrs.  Hughes  bent 
forward  and  whispered  into  her  ear: 

"  How  I  wish  I  could  cry  easily  like  that ;  so  effec- 
tive ! " 

Cry  easily !  thought  Miriam.  How  little  the  woman 
knew!  These  tears  had  flowed  for  all  manner  of 
nameless  griefs  of  the  spirit. 

214 


TO     THE     STARS 

The  music  stopped.  Again  Herman  came  across  to 
where  Miriam  sat. 

"  Well !  you  enjoyed  it  ?  "  he  asked.  He  stood  beside 
her,  smiling,  still  holding  his  violin  in  his  hand. 

"  Yes,  completely,"  she  answered. 

"  May  I  sit  down  here  ?  "  he  said.  The  remark  was 
so  rude  that  Miriam  did  not  know  what  to  say,  for  it 
implied  that  Mrs.  Hughes  should  give  up  her  chair  to 
Herman — there  was  no  other.  "  Mrs.  Hughes  will 
talk  her  clever  talk  to  Courteis,  while  we  speak  of 
stupid  things  together,"  he  said,  smilingly  accepting 
the  chair,  which  Mrs.  Hughes  rather  hurriedly  vacated. 
She  fussed  away,  leaving  Miriam  and  Herman  alone. 
He  turned  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Why  did  you  cry  for  this  little  thing?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  it  said  what  I  have  felt  so  often,"  she  an- 
swered. Herman  held  his  violin  on  his  knee,  and  for 
a  moment  he  did  not  speak,  but  sat  plucking  ever  so 
gently  at  the  strings  of  it ;  it  gave  out  a  faint  humming 
sound  under  his  fingers.  Then  he  looked  up  and 
laughed. 

"  Yes,  it  is  my  felicity  to  express  what  other  men 
only  feel,"  he  said. 

"  How  did  you  learn  ?  "  Miriam  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Learn  ?  "  Herman  cried,  turning  suddenly,  almost 
angrily,  to  her.  "  Learn  it !  It  is  me — I — whichever 
you  call  it.  Me — me — in  me  here.  I  do  not  need  to 
learn."  He  struck  his  hand  against  his  breast  with  a 
passionate  gesture.  "  I  feel,  I  express — the  two  go 
hand  in  hand !  " 

"  But,"  Miriam  objected,  "  you  cannot  have  felt 
everything ;  yet  to-day  I  have  felt  you  express  so  much 

215 


THE     LADDER 

— things"  (she  hesitated,  and  then  added)  " — things 
I  thought  only  I  had  felt." 

"  There  is  not  much  that  I  cannot  express,"  he  said. 
Courteis  passed  near  them  just  then,  and  Herman 
called  to  him,  as  he  had  done  before. 

"  Max !  Max !  come  here !  "  and  when  Courteis 
paused  beside  them,  he  added :  "  Who  am  I  speaking 
to?  She  understands  many  things." 

Courteis  laughed.  "  Miss  Miriam  Sadler — a  name 
not  yet  known  to  fame,  Herman,  but  on  the  way 
to  it." 

Herman  turned  and  looked  at  Miriam  inquiringly; 
but  he  did  not  ask  by  what  avenue  she  was  going  to 
reach  the  temple  of  Fame. 

"  If  you  like  to  hear  me  play  again  you  shall  do  so. 
Max,  I  shall  send  tickets  to  your  wife  and  this  lady; 
they  shall  go  together  to  hear  me  if  they  choose." 

"  Oh !  "  cried  Miriam,  "  how  I  should  like  that !  " 

"  What  would  you  like  so  much  ?  "  said  a  voice  at 
her  elbow.  It  was  Mrs.  Hughes,  who  had  apparently 
come  to  take  Miriam  away,  for  she  was  drawing  on 
her  gloves,  and  Mrs.  Courteis  stood  limply  beside  her, 
waiting  to  bid  her  good-by. 

"  To  hear  him  play  again,"  Miriam  answered. 

Herman  cast  a  frightfully  scowling  glance  at  Mrs. 
Hughes,  and  turned  away,  saying  over  his  shoulder: 

"  You  shall  have  the  tickets,  Miss  Sadler." 

Mrs.  Hughes  bade  farewell  to  her  host  and  hostess 
then,  and  took  Miriam  off.  As  they  drove  along  she 
said  in  her  subacid  way : 

"  You  should  be  elated,  Miss  Sadler,  the  great  Her- 
man was  so  amiable  to  you ;  but  did  you  ever  see  such 

216 


TO     THE     STARS 

manners  ? "  Like  many  of  her  sex,  Mrs.  Hughes 
never  allowed  another  woman  to  suppose  her  charms 
were  remarkable ;  so,  after  having  admitted  that  Her- 
man had  been  amiable,  she  hastily  added : 

"  Report  says  he  is  very  susceptible,  of  course ;  but 
one  can  never  tell  the  truth  about  celebrities." 

"  I  suppose  not,"  Miriam  agreed.  The  woman  of 
the  world,  when  she  feels  herself  attacked  in  this  subtle 
way,  has  all  her  weapons  of  defense  ready  in  a  mo- 
ment. But  Miriam's  case  was  far  other  from  this. 
She  felt  vaguely  that  Mrs.  Hughes  meant  to  be  dis- 
agreeable, and  the  only  effect  this  had  was  to  make 
her  awkward  and  silent.  Her  silence  provoked  her 
companion  to  further  waspishness. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  will  remember  anything  about  those 
tickets  he  was  so  lavish  with  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Only  time  can  show  that,"  the  girl  responded. 

"  I  wouldn't  set  my  heart  on  it,  if  I  were  you,"  Mrs. 
Hughes  suggested  kindly.  "  Ten  to  one  he  never  re- 
members anything  about  it."  The  remark  irritated 
Miriam.  It  seemed  to  imply  that  she  was  counting 
unduly  upon  Herman's  promise. 

Having  shot  this  arrow,  Mrs.  Hughes  now  wished 
to  be  agreeable,  and  again  made  allusion  to  next  Sun- 
day afternoon ;  but  Miriam  had  decided  to  refuse  this 
invitation. 

"  I  shall  write  to  you  about  it,"  she  said,  as  she  got 
out  of  the  carriage  at  Cochrane's  door. 

Supper  was  laid  in  the  little  parlor  when  she  came 
in,  and  Cochrane  was  there  waiting  for  her.  She  went 
upstairs  and  took  off  her  walking  dress,  and  then  they 
sat  down  to  supper. 

217 


THE     LADDER 

"  Well,  and  did  you  enjoy  your  afternoon?"  Coch- 
rane  inquired. 

Miriam  was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  It  was  very  eventful  for  me,"  she  said  slowly ; 
"  but  I  am  not  fit  really  for  clever  society  like  that." 

"  They  must  think  you  fit  or  they  wouldn't  ask 
you,"  said  Cochrane. 

"  '  Thou  hast  a  name  that  thou  livest,  but  art  dead/  " 
Miriam  quoted.  "  I  have  written  two  or  three  clever- 
ish  things,  and  they  think  I  will  write  more,  that  is  all. 
It  is  silly  of  them.  I  have  not  done  enough ;  I  never 
will,  if  I  begin  to  count  upon  the  little  things  I  have 
done." 

Cochrane  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "  Well,  I  must 
say  you  are  a  remarkable  young  woman,"  she  said ; 
"  and  to  think  that  you  are  own  niece  to  Mrs.  Pillar ; 
she  that  was  so  taken  up  with  jams  and  jellies  and 
servants'  allowances,  and  what  not !  " 

"  That  was  her  world.  I  have  mine.  It  is  all  what 
one  happens  to  be  interested  in,"  was  Miriam's  answer, 
an  answer  which  didn't  in  the  least  solve  the  puzzle. 


218 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

MIRIAM'S  days  very  soon  fell  into  a  routine  of  ex- 
traordinary invariability.  The  morning  hours  she  de- 
voted entirely  to  reading.  She  had  long  ago  returned 
her  first  supply  of  books  to  Alan  Gore ;  but,  spite  of 
resolutions  to  the  contrary,  had  not  been  able  to  resist 
his  kind  offer  of  another  supply,  for  she  felt  it  pleas- 
anter  to  read  from  his  books  than  from  any  other 
copies  of  the  same  works.  Monotonous  days  are  really 
those  which  produce  the  events  of  the  intellectual  life. 
In  the  stillness  and  intense  application  of  these  hours, 
Miriam  was  laying  up  a  store  of  knowledge  such 
as  she  had  never  hoped  to  have  leisure  to  acquire. 
After  reading  all  morning,  she  went  out  in  the  after- 
noon, generally  escorted  by  Cochrane,  who  consented 
rather  unwillingly  to  be  her  guide  to  the  historical  bits 
of  old  London  that  she  delighted  to  visit.  Being,  how- 
ever, an  obliging  woman,  Cochrane  never  refused  to 
go  on  these  exploring  expeditions,  and  even  began  to 
take  a  certain  interest  in  them. 

In  the  evening  Miriam  always  went  up  to  her  own 
room  and  tried  to  write.  Even  if  she  failed,  the  em- 
ployment was  a  joy  to  her,  as  she  told  herself  over  and 
over  again.  It  was  a  lonely,  unhuman  sort  of  life  for 
a  young  person  to  live,  shut  in  thus  to  books  and  ideas, 
with  little  or  no  contact  with  the  living  world.  Delia 
Gore  had  gone  abroad,  and  in  her  absence  Miriam 

219 


THE     LADDER 

never  hoped  to  see  Alan  Gore.  In  the  whole  of  Lon- 
don, Mr.  and  Mrs.  Courteis  were  her  only  acquaint- 
ances, and  she  did  not  care  much  for  either  of  them. 
Still,  she  was  glad  to  have  their  house  to  go  to,  and 
glad  to  meet  there  people  who  interested  her;  it  kept 
her  from  feeling  too  lonely. 

"  I  wish  you  had  more  diversion,"  Cochrane  said 
one  morning,  looking  fixedly  at  the  girl.  "  Young 
people  can  have  too  much  of  their  own  thoughts." 

Miriam  laughed. 

"  Well,  Mrs.  Courteis  is  going  to  take  me  to  hear 
Herman,  the  violinist,  play  to-morrow,"  she  said ;  "  so 
you  should  be  pleased." 

For  the  tickets  had  come,  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Hughes's 
insinuations  to  the  contrary,  and  Mrs.  Courteis,  in  her 
lackluster  way,  had  written  to  suggest  that  they  should 
go  together  to  the  concert.  When  the  evening  came 
Miriam  could  have  wished  for  a  more  joyous  compan- 
ion, one  who  seemed  to  care  to  hear  the  music,  or  who 
even  cared  to  look  at  the  audience — Mrs.  Courteis  did 
neither,  but  leaned  back  in  her  seat,  huddled  in  a 
tashed-looking  opera  cloak,  and  yawned  repeatedly. 

"  I'm  sure  I  wish  the  audience  would  let  him  be 
done.  Did  you  ever  hear  anything  so  tiresome  as  these 
encores  ?  "  she  remarked. 

"  Oh,  but  he  is  so  wonderful !  Do  you  not  wish  to 
hear  him  again  ?  "  Miriam  exclaimed.  She  had  leaned 
forward,  flushed  with  excitement,  to  catch  every  note 
that  Herman  played,  and  now,  forgetful  of  her  apa- 
thetic companion,  she  cried  out  in  the  fullness  of  her 
heart : 

"  Think  what  it  would  be  to  have  a  means  of  expres- 

220 


TO     THE     STARS 

sion  such  as  he  has!  to  be  able  to  compel  the  world 
to  listen ! " 

Mrs.  Courteis  did  not  crave  for  expression  appar- 
ently, for  she  only  shrugged  her  shoulders  at  Miriam's 
enthusiasm,  and  said  there  was  a  draught  in  the  hall. 

"  I  have  heard  him  play  so  often,"  she  explained. 
"  He  is  constantly  at  our  house.  You  had  better  come 
and  meet  him  again  some  day,  if  he  interests  you. 
Indeed,  I  am  rather  tired  of  these  geniuses  my  hus- 
band is  so  fond  of ;  but  I  suppose  they  are  new  to  you." 
She  was  a  good-natured  woman,  in  her  vapid  way,  and 
the  sight  of  the  girl's  enthusiasm  rather  amused  her. 

"  Come  and  dine  with  us  on  Thursday,"  she  said. 
"  I  heard  my  husband  ask  him  that  day.  It  might  in- 
terest you." 

Miriam  accepted  the  invitation  gladly. 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  I  am  not  tired  of  geniuses," 
she  said. 

"  He  won't  be  at  dinner,"  Mrs.  Courteis  pursued. 
"  I  never  give  dinners ;  one  needs  to  be  so  particular 
about  the  food ;  so  people  only  come  in  to  our  house 
in  the  evenings;  but  I  don't  mind  asking  you,  Miss 
Sadler;  I  don't  imagine  you  will  mind  much  about 
what  you  eat." 

A  little  more  knowledge  of  the  Courteises'  household 
made  Miriam  understand  this  rather  limp  invitation. 
It  was  always  at  sixes  and  sevens,  the  meals  were  un- 
punctual  and  indifferently  served,  and  Mrs.  Courteis 
never  seemed  to  take  any  interest  in  how  things  were 
done.  Yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  or  perhaps  just  be- 
cause of  it,  people  came  to  the  house  in  streams ;  the 
shabby  drawing-room  was  never  empty,  and  no  one 

15  221 


THE     LADDER 

refused  to  drink  the  indifferent  coffee  that  was  served 
there. 

This  was  because  there  was  no  feeling  of  effort 
about  such  hospitality  as  the  Courteises  offered.  Peo- 
ple might  come,  if  they  chose ;  they  would  not  get 
much  food  for  the  body,  but  there  was  always  plenty 
of  good  company  to  be  had. 

On  the  Thursday  evening  appointed,  Miriam  ate  of 
the  ill-cooked  dinner,  and  then  they  went  into  the  draw- 
ing-room to  wait  for  anyone  who  chose  to  appear  that 
evening.  Quite  a  number  of  people  came,  and  each 
time  the  door  opened,  she  looked  up  expecting  to  see 
Herman  come  in.  When  at  last  he  came,  the  room 
was  full  of  people  and  buzzing  with  talk.  He  stood  in 
the  doorway  scowling  at  the  crowded  room — a  scowl 
that  sat  ill  on  his  boyish  face — then  came  forward  to 
speak  to  Mrs.  Courteis.  His  words  were  not  exces- 
sively polite. 

"  There  are  too  many  people  here  to-night ;  why 
has  Max  told  me  to  come  to-night  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Oh,  the  people  won't  hurt  you,"  said  his  hostess 
in  the  soothing  voice  she  would  have  used  to  a  child. 
"  Here  is  Miss  Sadler,  whom  you  sent  the  tickets  to ; 
come  and  speak  to  her."  Herman  looked  round  at 
Miriam,  and  then  came  up  to  where  she  stood,  smiling 
so  charmingly  that  she  could  not  believe  it  was  the 
same  man  who  had  stood  scowling  in  the  doorway  a 
minute  before. 

"  Come ;  this  is  better,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  sit  here 
and  talk;  for  it  seems  to  me  that  we  speak  the  same 
language." 

It  seemed  so  to  Miriam  also,  for  she  found  herself 
222 


TO     THE     STARS 

speaking  to  him  without  a  shadow  of  constraint  or 
shyness  in  a  very  short  time.  That  freemasonry  which 
exists  between  all  artists,  whatever  their  medium  of 
expression  may  happen  to  be,  made  itself  felt  be- 
tween them. 

"  There  are  so  many  hindrances  to  all  one  tries  to 
do,"  she  said.  "  I  have  had  so  many  hindrances  of 
circumstance— "  She  paused,  wondering  if  Herman 
understood.  He  looked  at  her  in  a  surprised  way. 

"  They  have  never  existed  for  me,  these  hindrances 
of  circumstance  that  you  speak  of,"  he  said.  "  Cir- 
cumstance ?  "  He  ended  his  sentence  on  an  interroga- 
tive note.  Miriam  was  almost  provoked. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  have  your  circumstances  al- 
ways been  so  propitious  ?  " 

"  I  never  thought;  let  me  consider;  what  is  this  you 
call  propitious?  I  was  the  son  of  a  peasant;  he  used 
to  play  the  flute,  and  I  cried  for  it  before  I  knew  one 
note  from  another.  And  I  grew  older  and  learned 
the  notes,  and  got  a  little  fiddle  of  my  own,  and  made 
new  tunes,  because  the  old  ones  were  not  enough  for 
me ;  and  I  made  more,  and  men  heard  them  and  wanted 
to  hear  them  again,  and  I  made  more  and  more;  all 
came  to  me  as  easily  as  the  birds  sing.  Then  I  wanted 
to  learn  skill,  and  I  learned  skill."  He  spread  out  his 
fine  hands  toward  Miriam  in  explanation,  feeling  down 
the  length  of  his  fingers  as  he  spoke. 

"  This,  too,  I  have  by  nature,  a  curious  facility. 
But  then  I  wanted  to  feel,  and  this  is  the  hard  labor 
of  the  artist.  We  live  by  our  emotions ;  we  dare  not 
starve  them,  or  our  art  suffers." 

Miriam,  looking  into  his  face,  thought  to  herself  that 
223 


THE     LADDER 

he  had  indeed  lived  by  his  emotions;  it  was  so  young 
and  yet  so  passionate. 

"  What  do  you  call  starving  your  emotions  ?  "  she 
asked  curiously. 

"  I  do  not  grudge  myself  pleasure,  and  I  do  not 
dread  pain,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  question,  '  Is  this 
pleasure  right  or  wrong?  '  For  me  all  emotion  is  right. 
This  is  my  work,  to  feel,  so  that  I  may  express.  This 
is  my  conscience,  and  this  only." 

Miriam  was  intensely  interested,  though  a  chord 
of  hereditary  conscience  thrilled  somewhere  deep  down 
in  her  heart,  and  said,  "  False  morals."  Still  the  the- 
ory had  its  attractions.  She  had  thought  a  great  deal 
round  this  very  subject,  but  had  never  heard  anyone 
profess  the  doctrine  quite  so  plainly. 

"  Then  you  mean  that  things  which  are  generally 
held  to  be  wrong  for  most  of  the  world  would  not  be 
wrong  for  the  artist  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  say  whatever  furthers  his  instinct  is  right  for 
him.  I  do  not  speak  of  other  men,  I  speak  for  myself." 

Looking  at  and  listening  to  him,  Miriam  half  be- 
lieved what  he  said  to  be  true.  Art  like  his,  she 
thought,  would  justify  any  conduct;  but  how  bewil- 
dering it  all  was,  this  conflict  of  art  and  morality; 
must  they  always  be  divorced?  Herman  seemed  to 
read  her  thoughts;  he  looked  at  her  and  laughed, 
tossing  back  the  lock  of  hair  that  tumbled  across  his 
eyes. 

"  Behold  me !  "  he  laughed.  "  I  stand  before  kings 
now,  and  what  has  gained  me  all  this  ?  I  live  and  live. 
Why  do  the  people  long  to  hear  me?  Because  I  have 
so  much  to  tell,  I  who  have  felt  so  much.  I  lift  them 

224 


TO     THE     STARS 

out  of  their  dull  lives  into  places  of  strange  emotion 
they  know  nothing  of.  I  went  once  to  play  in  the 
Provinces ;  you  should  have  seen  my  audience ;  such 
quiet  country  folk  came  from  distances  to  hear  me,  and 
old  ladies — so  many.  I  played — but  no,  the  names  are 
only  names  to  you — "  He  paused  and  laughed  again. 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  the  names ;  tell  me  what  you 
played  about,"  Miriam  said. 

"  Things  they  were  ignorant  of.  I  see  them  now, 
so  stiff  and  cold  and  proper,  till  I  played  them  off  their 
seats  on  to  their  feet  to  wave  their  handkerchiefs  for 
me !  " 

"  Then  you  think  people  like  to  hear  things  they 
know  nothing  about  ?  "  Miriam  asked.  "  Why,  if  that 
is  true,  they  will  never  care  to  hear  me,  all  my  subjects 
are  so  hackneyed  and  well  known.  I  only  know  about 
humdrum  days  such  as  half  the  world  lives." 

"  There !  "  Herman  cried ;  "  there  !  You  try  to  make 
rules  for  Art,  Art  that  knows  no  rule.  I  spoke  of  my 
secret  only.  Yours  will  be  different,  and  another's 
different  again,  and  it  is  never  the  same." 

Miriam  sat  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  she  said, 
"  Thank  you,"  in  a  quiet  voice.  The  words  made 
Herman  laugh  again. 

"  You  thank  me,"  he  said.  "  But  you  know  all  about 
it  already.  You  need  only  confidence — to  trust  your 
instinct.  Let  it  work  and  produce  what  it  chooses,  and 
the  world  will  listen.  I  like  in  you  your  understanding 
heart — that  few  have." 

"  But  I  know  nothing.  I  did  not  understand  one 
word  of  all  the  clever  things  that  Mrs.  Hughes  said 
to  you  that  Sunday." 

225 


THE     LADDER 

"  This  Mrs.  Hughes  talks  like  a  clever  parrot.  She 
knows  everything  and  understands  nothing.  You  are 
the  opposite;  you  understand  everything  and  know 
nothing." 

What  Miriam  knew  at  that  moment  was,  that  she 
had  for  the  first  time  met  a  fellow  artist.  She  dis- 
tinguished in  her  own  mind  between  him  and  the  other 
two  clever  men  she  knew — Alan  Gore  and  Max  Cour- 
teis.  They  had  intellect  and  cultivation ;  but  this  man 
was  different  from  either  of  them;  he  did  the  things 
that  the  other  two  only  understood  and  admired.  To 
do — ah,  that  was  it!  She  could  not  look  at  Herman 
and  name  him  a  good  man ;  but  that  he  was  great  was 
undeniable;  he  had  that  worshipful  faculty  of  doing 
supremely  what  other  men  could  not  even  attempt. 
She  regarded  him  curiously;  had  he  not  attained  to 
his  heaven  already  ? — reached  the  stars  that  Alan  Gore 
told  her  no  one  ever  reached. 

"  Are  you  satisfied,  happy,  you  who  have  attained 
to  perfection  ?  "  she  asked  him  suddenly. 

"  I  satisfied !  I  attained  to  perfection !  The  woman 
is  mad  to  ask  me  such  a  question,"  Herman  exclaimed. 
"  Happy !  "  he  paused  and  added  slowly :  "  I  have 
tasted  great  success ;  but  this  happiness — joy,  ecstasy, 
felicity — they  are  names  to  me.  I  have  not  touched 
the  fringe  of  them.  Some  men  must  have  felt  them, 
for  have  they  not  invented  words  to  express  them? 
But  not  I ;  they  are  dead  names  to  me." 

"  Oh !  "  said  Miriam,  drawing  in  her  breath  with 
a  long  sigh.  It  was  true,  then,  what  Courteis  said 
to  her  long  ago,  that  not  one  person  in  a  thousand 
knew  the  meaning  of  these  beautiful  terms !  Herman 

226 


TO     THE     STARS 

sat  covering  his  eyes  with  his  hand,  and  did  not  speak 
again.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her  presence. 
After  a  minute  or  two  of  silence  he  rose  and  held  out 
his  hand  to  her. 

"  I  must  go.  I  wish  you  good-by.  I  shall  see  you 
again  when  I  return  to  London  in  May.  Good-by." 

He  was  gone ;  and  no  one  in  the  room  seemed  to  be 
worth  speaking  to  now,  she  thought. 


227 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXXII 

SPRING  came  early  that  year,  and  May  was  a  month 
of  intense  heat.  The  pavements  seemed  as  if  they 
would  blister  one's  feet,  so  hot  the  asphalt  had  become, 
and  the  air  felt  like  the  blast  from  an  oven  door. 
Miriam  sat  indoors  most  of  the  day  working.  Some- 
times her  thoughts  turned  longingly  to  the  fresh  Hind- 
cup  meadows,  and  she  wondered  if  she  was  a  fool 
to  exile  herself  here  in  the  breathless  town,  when  she 
might  be  there  in  the  delicious  country.  And  then  the 
thought  of  Mr.  Smaile — now  her  mother's  husband — 
made  it  impossible  for  her  to  think  of  home,  and  she 
would  turn  away  from  the  beckoning  memory  of  green 
fields  and  resume  her  work. 

One  of  these  days  she  met  Herman  again.  It  had 
been  more  than  usually  hot,  and  not  a  breath  of  air 
came  in  through  the  wide-open  windows  in  the  Cour- 
teises'  dark,  shabby  drawing-room.  Miriam  stood  close 
to  the  window,  looking  out  at  the  smoke-blackened 
lilac  bushes  that  grew  in  the  garden  below.  She 
turned  round  with  a  start  to  find  Herman  standing 
beside  her. 

"  Oh,  you  have  come  back  again !  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  to  this  inferno,  where  I  must  stay  to  earn  my 
bread,"  he  answered.  "  Feel  this  air,  like  soup.  I  am 
sick  of  this  town  to-day.  I  want  the  country  fields. 

228 


TO     THE     STARS 

On  Saturday  I  wish  to  play  a  pastoral  symphony  filled 
with  beautiful  peace,  and  the  peace  is  not  in  me. 
Where  can  you  find  it  here  in  London?  " 

"  Nowhere,"  said  Miriam  shortly.  "  Why  do  you 
not  go  into  the  country  to  look  for  it  ?  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  into  this  green  country?  " 
he  asked  suddenly,  staring  at  Miriam  with  his  great 
black  eyes.  The  proposal  was  so  unconventional  that 
she  did  not  know  how  to  answer  it. 

"  I  should  only  bother  you,"  she  said  evasively. 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  the  company  of  those  who  bother 
me.  Say  you  will  come,"  he  urged. 

Miriam  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  should  not  en- 
tertain the  idea  for  a  moment;  but  the  suddenness  of 
the  temptation  carried  her  away.  How  beautiful  it 
would  be  to  go  into  the  country  with  Herman  and  talk 
to  him,  and  hear  him  talk,  and  listen  to  his  strange  ex- 
periences !  She  dallied  with  the  idea  for  a  dangerous 
moment.  Then  her  upbringing  asserted  itself  and  re- 
proved the  suggestion ;  and  yet  again  a  remembrance 
of  her  cousins  and  their  contempt  of  her  swept  across 
her  mind.  What  would  they  say  if  they  could  hear 
Herman  urging  her  to  come  into  the  country  with 
him? — Miriam,  the  woman  of  no  account,  whom  they 
said  no  man  cared  to  speak  to !  With  incredible  folly, 
her  decision  was  made  by  this  thought.  She  could 
go,  she,  too,  could  amuse  herself;  and  better  than  any 
of  them,  if  she  chose ! 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I'll  come,  and  we  will  not  talk  one 
tiresome  word  all  day  long." 

Herman  was  delighted. 

"  We  will  go  into  Hampshire.  Once  I  was  sent 
229 


there  when  I  was  ill.  I  lived  at  the  village  inn.  The 
place  was  divinely  quiet,  with  this  slow-running  river, 
and  such  bright  green  fields.  When  shall  we  start? 
Not  early,  for  I  rise  late ;  say,  twelve  o'clock,  and  the 
day  Friday,  and  the  station  Waterloo." 

"  Only  if  the  day  is  fine,"  said  Miriam,  to  give  her- 
self a  loophole  of  escape. 

"  Yes,  if  the  sun  shines ;  but  it  will ;  it  shines  often 
for  me.  But  what  is  wrong?  You  do  not  altogether 
wish  to  come?  " 

"  I  do,  indeed,  but  I  do  not  know — "  she  began. 

"  If  you  should  ? — the  old  question !  I  have  told  you 
my  creed,  to  do  the  thing  that  pleases  me;  this  is  the 
artist's  food,  his  meat  and  drink." 

"  I  will  come,"  she  said. 

On  Thursday  night  Miriam  looked  out  and  said  to 
herself  that  it  would  probably  rain  the  next  morn- 
ing. She  rather  wished  that  it  would.  But  it  did 
not  rain. 

"  I  must  go ! "  she  said  to  herself,  half  in  pleasure, 
half  in  dismay. 

At  breakfast  she  told  Cochrane  of  her  plans  for  the 
day ;  but  she  did  not  mention  Herman's  name. 

"  I  am  going  into  the  country  to-day ;  I  won't  be 
home  till  eight  o'clock,"  she  said. 

"  I'll  wait  supper  for  you.  But  what's  taking  you 
to  the  country  ?  "  Cochrane  asked. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  wanted  some  fresh  air,"  said  Miriam. 
She  took  a  'bus  to  the  station,  and  as  she  jolted  along 
she  tried  to  tell  herself  that  this  expedition  was  quite 
wise. 

"  No  one  will  ever  know  about  it,"  she  said ;  but 
230 


TO     THE     STARS 

when  she  found  herself  standing  beside  Herman  on 
the  platform  and  noticed  how  people  pointed  him  out 
and  stared  at  him,  she  became  increasingly  uneasy. 

"  I  forgot  he  was  so  well  known,"  she  thought,  add- 
ing aloud  to  him : 

"  How  people  stare  at  us ;  do  you  not  mind?  " 

"  I  ?  No ;  I'm  accustomed,"  he  said,  with  a  little 
shrug.  "  Come,  let  us  get  into  our  carriage,  and  that 
will  stop  them." 

Miriam,  as  you  know,  was  not  accustomed  to  much 
gilded  luxury.  She  was  surprised  to  see  that  Herman 
had  engaged  a  carriage  for  themselves  alone. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  "  that  I  have  never  taken 
even  a  short  journey  in  a  first-class  carriage  before  ?  " 

"Did  I,  before  I  began  to  make  my  money?"  he 
asked.  "  Now  I  cannot  spend  enough,  so  I  have  all 
luxuries.  I  take  revenge  on  poverty,  now  that  I  have 
escaped  from  it.  Come  now  and  give  me  your  simple 
tales  of  life;  they  make  me  amused." 

The  train  moved  out  of  the  dingy  station,  out 
through  the  smutty,  endless  suburban  streets,  into  the 
clean,  green  country.  The  air  coming  in  through  the 
carriage  window  smelled  fresh  and  delightful.  Mir- 
iam's spirits  rose.  After  all,  it  was  the  first  time  in 
her  life  that  she  had  done  anything  so  amusing.  Her- 
man, too,  was  in  the  best  of  tempers.  He  wanted  to 
hear  all  about  her  life  at  home  and  in  London,  and 
listened  to  these  "  simple  tales  "  with  a  mixture  of 
sympathy  and  amusement  that  beguiled  her  into  easy 
narration.  When  the  train  stopped  and  they  got  out 
at  the  little  country  station,  they  felt  curiously  well 
acquainted. 

231 


THE     LADDER 

"  Here  I  came  last  Easter  when  I  was  ill,"  he  said. 
"  I  came  so  ill  and  left  it  so  well.  We  shall  lunch 
at  the  inn." 

It  was  all  gay  and  delightful.  They  sat  at  a  little 
round  table  at  the  window  of  the  inn,  and  Herman 
laughed  and  talked  all  the  time,  and  in  exchange  for 
Miriam's  simple  annals,  told  her  extraordinary  stories 
of  his  short  and  brilliant  past. 

"  They  used  to  point  me  out  in  the  streets  when  I 
was  a  boy,  as  I  passed  to  my  lessons.  '  That  is  the 
wonderful  little  Herman,'  they  said.  And  then  the 
first  night  when  I  played  at  Vienna " — he  stopped 
and  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes — "  I  think  I  hear 
the  shouts  still,  the  first  I  earned.  I  have  heard  many 
since  then,  but  none  like  these ! "  Miriam's  eyes 
brimmed  up  with  sudden  tears  of  sympathy,  and  Her- 
man, looking  at  her,  exclaimed,  as  if  to  a  third  person, 
"  How  she  understands !  " 

He  rose  hastily,  crumpling  up  his  napkin  on  the 
table.  "  Come ;  we  shall  go  and  walk  by  the  river ;  we 
waste  the  sunshine  indoors." 

They  left  the  village  behind  them,  and  strolled  off 
across  the  fields  toward  the  river.  It  meandered  along, 
almost  level  with  its  banks — one  of  those  slow-running 
English  streams  the  poets  have  sung  from  time  im- 
memorial, and  yet  the  songs  have  not  all  been  sung 
yet;  fresh  measures  linger  still  in  the  gentle  lapping 
of  their  waters. 

Miriam  stood  among  the  flower-starred  grass  in 
ecstasy. 

"  There  is  an  old  hymn  they  sing  in  the  meeting- 
house at  Hindcup  that  is  just  like  this,"  she  said. 

232 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  '  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  decked  in  living  green.' 

When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  think  I  would  have 
to  wade  through  the  river,  and  it  frightened  me,  but 
the  thought  of  the  flowers  on  the  other  bank  consoled 
me  a  little." 

They  sat  down  by  the  edge  of  the  river,  and  fell 
into  talk  almost  as  if  they  were  old  friends  reunited. 
There  seemed  so  much  to  hear,  so  much  to  tell.  One 
of  the  divine  attributes  of  humanity  is  its  craving  for 
sympathy :  the  lonely  soul  is  ever  incomplete,  and  on 
its  solitary  path  is  always  watching  for  another  soul 
that  can  bear  it  company. 

There  was  something  in  Herman's  passionately  re- 
sponsive nature  that  made  it  seem  easy  and  natural 
for  Miriam  to  talk  to  him  of  things  which  were  too 
painful  for  her  to  mention  to  other  people. 

"  It  has  been  my  fate  to  make  friends  in  quite  an- 
other rank  from  my  own,"  she  told  him ;  "  and  I  some- 
times wonder  if  it  has  given  me  more  pleasure  or 
pain."  Herman  looked  at  her,  a  long,  searching  look, 
and  nodded. 

"  You  have  loved  a  man  of  another  rank,  I  think  ?  " 
he  said,  without  taking  his  eyes  off  her  face  as  he 
asked  the  question. 

"  Oh,  I  have  not  allowed  myself  to  love  him !  "  Mir- 
iam cried;  but  in  spite  of  herself  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears,  and  she  gave  a  little  sob  that  she  could  not  stifle. 

Herman  nodded  again. 

"  Do  not  regret  it ;  but  I  know  how  it  is  with  us, 
we  who  have  imagination.  It  is  not  altogether  the  in- 

233 


THE     LADDER 

dividuals  we  love,  it  is  what  we  imagine  them  to  be. 
A  thousand  times  I  have  cursed  this  imagination  by 
which  I  live  and  am  famous.  You,  too,  will  do  the 
same;  the  price  is  heavy.  But  this  is  you  and  this  is 
me,  and  wanting  it,  we  would  want  our  occupations, 
yours  and  mine." 

Miriam  looked  up  at  his  face,  so  young  and  cruelly 
expressive ;  a  shadow  seemed  to  have  fallen  across  it, 
as  dark  as  a  thundercloud. 

"  What  harm  has  imagination  done  you  ?  "  she  asked 
him. 

"  I  married  a  woman  and  thought  her  divine,  as  im- 
aginative fools  will ;  now  I  cannot  bear  to  look  at  her." 

"  Oh,"  she  said,  "  and  you  are  so  young !  "  Herman 
nodded  in  reply,  and  flung  a  stone  into  the  river. 

"  I  shall  get  rid  of  her  some  day,"  he  said,  "  when  I 
have  time." 

She  looked  at  him  in  surprise.  These  were  not  the 
morals  of  Hindcup. 

"  Do  you  think  that  would  be  right  ?  "  she  asked. 

Herman  seemed  scarcely  to  understand  her  question. 
"  Right  ?  "  he  repeated.  "  I  have  told  you  what  is 
right  for  me ;  this  which  furthers  my  art.  She  spoils 
it;  she  worries  me.  I  shall  be  quit  of  her  when  I  can." 

Miriam  almost  envied  the  directness  of  his  convic- 
tion, whether  mistaken  or  not. 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  But,  of  course, 
I  was  brought  up  to  think  quite  the  other  way." 

"  It  is  all  quite  simple  for  me,"  Herman  said.  " '  Do 
you  love  her?'  I  ask,  and  my  heart  says  'No,'  and 
there  it  ends.  No  love,  no  marriage  for  me." 

"  I  wish  you  were  happy,"  Miriam  said  earnestly. 
234 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  It  seems  all  wrong  that  you  who  give  so  much  pleas- 
ure to  other  people  should  not  be  happy  yourself." 

Herman  laughed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Come ;  we  shall  move  on  farther  up  the  river,"  he 
said.  "  We  came  down  here  to  search  for  peace  and 
happiness,  and  instead  we  speak  of  the  things  which 
hurt  us  most.  We  shall  stop  such  talk  and  go  in 
search  of  peace." 


235 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

THE  search  proved  to  be  a  long  one.  At  least  they 
sauntered  on  by  the  river's  bank,  following  its  delicious 
meanderings,  through  field  after  field,  till  they  came  to 
where  the  water  gathered  in  a  great  black  pool,  still 
and  deep.  Herman  flung  himself  down  on  the  bank 
and  closed  his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  listen  now,"  he  said.  "  If  one  sits  very 
still,  sometimes  the  Earth  speaks  to  one." 

Miriam  sat  down  and  listened.  Ever  so  many  tiny, 
unnoticed  sounds  came  to  her  ears.  She  began  to 
count  them.  The  ripple  of  the  water,  one ;  the  sound 
of  the  breeze  overhead,  two ;  the  rustle  of  the  grasses, 
three;  the  chirrup  of  the  grasshopper,  four;  the  note 
of  a  bird,  five;  the  cropping  of  a  sheep  near  them, 
six ;  a  fish  jumping  in  the  pool,  seven.  She  wondered 
if  Herman  was  counting  the  sounds  also.  He  was  ly- 
ing on  the  grass,  his  hands  clasped  under  his  head,  his 
eyes  shut. 

"  I  daresay  he  hears  a  great  many  that  I  am  too 
stupid  to  notice,"  she  thought.  "  I  wish  that  I  had  per- 
ceptions like  his ;  he  enjoys  sounds  as  I  enjoy  sights." 

In  the  stillness  a  bird  gave  the  most  enchanting 
little  note,  almost  conversational  in  its  intelligence,  and 
Herman  smiled.  Far  away  across  the  meadows  the 
church  clock  struck  five.  Miriam  started ;  she  had  not 
thought  it  was  so  late.  She  ventured  to  speak. 

236 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Did  you  hear  the  clock  strike  ?  Should  we  not 
be  turning  back  ?  There  is  some  way  to  go,"  she  said. 

Herman  opened  his  eyes,  but  did  not  stir. 

"  Go,  then,  if  you  wish  to.  How  can  you  so  inter- 
rupt me?  I  am  learning,"  he  said,  so  crossly  that  she 
drew  in  her  breath  in  dismay:  she  was  not  accus- 
tomed to  men  of  genius  and  their  ways.  Rather  per- 
turbed as  to  what  was  the  best  thing  to  do,  she  sat 
still  for  a  little  longer,  and  then  rose  without  saying 
anything  and  walked  slowly  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
village.  Miriam  knew  that  the  London  train  left  at 
half-past  six,  and  it  must  now  be  well  after  five.  There 
was  a  long  way  to  be  gone  over  before,  the  village  was 
reached,  and  trains,  like  tides,  wait  for  no  man.  She 
looked  back  once  or  twice,  but  Herman  did  not  stir; 
she  lingered  and  loitered  along,  calculating  the  time 
as  well  as  she  could.  Then  at  last  Herman  rose  and 
came  sauntering  along.  Surely  even  he  could  not  be 
careless  enough  to  forget  the  hour  of  the  return  train. 
Miriam  waited  till  he  came  up,  and  then  asked  rather 
timidly  about  their  return  journey, 

"  It  is  nearly  six  o'clock,  I  am  sure,"  she  said. 

"  Is  it  ?  "  Herman  asked.  "  Can  it  be  that  you  wear 
a  watch?  I  cannot  stand  the  feeling  of  one;  some- 
thing alive  and  ticking,  such  a  little  distracting  beat 
in  the  pocket ;  it  seems  to  play  contrary  motion  to  the 
beat  of  my  heart.  I  never  carry  one.  I  take  no  note 
of  time." 

"  But,"  said  Miriam  almost  severely,  "  one  must  take 
note  of  time !  Trains  do  not  wait.  Come ;  we  must  be 
quick." 

"  Oh,  do  not  annoy  yourself.  Here  we  are  very  well 
16  237 


THE     LADDER 

in  the  country.  Maybe  we  shall  catch  this  train ;  but 
if  not,  then  we  shall  be  very  well  at  the  inn;  I  have 
money  enough,"  he  added  absently,  putting  his  hand 
into  his  pocket  and  bringing  out  a  handful  of  sov- 
ereigns. "  See,  this  would  pay  even  in  London,  and 
country  inns  are  cheap ;  do  not  worry." 

"  But  you  don't  seem  to  see  that  I  must  get  home 
to-night,"  the  girl  cried.  "  What  would  Cochrane 
think?  She  would  think  something  had  happened  to 
me!" 

"  Oh,  we  shall  send  her  a  message,"  Herman  said 
easily ;  "  but  we  shall  catch  the  train ;  without  doubt 
we  shall  catch  the  train." 

Miriam  could  not  face,  with  any  show  of  compo- 
sure, the  possibility  of  having  to  stay  all  night  at  the 
inn.  She  walked  along  in  a  perfect  anguish  of  anx- 
iety, counting  every  step  they  took.  Field  after  field 
seemed  to  stretch  before  them,  each  longer  than  the 
last. 

"  Oh,  do  hurry !  "  she  cried.  And  Herman  laughed, 
and  hurried  to  please  her. 

"  We  have  to  go  to  the  inn  for  our  wraps,"  he  said, 
as  they  neared  the  village ;  "  but  we  will  catch  the  train, 
without  doubt." 

"  Have  you  any  idea  what  the  exact  hour  of  the 
train  is  ?  " 

"  Seven  o'clock,  I  fancy.  Pray  do  not  vex  so," 
he  answered.  "  Even  if  we  miss  this  valuable  train, 
I  have  learned  so  much  it  has  been  well  worth 
while. 

Miriam  saw  that  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  make 
him  see  her  point  of  view ;  she  could  only  hope  for  the 

238 


TO     THE     STARS 

best.  As  they  came  in  sight  of  the  inn,  they  saw  a 
puff  of  smoke  at  the  station,  and  a  minute  later  a  train 
went  steaming  out  in  the  London  direction. 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  that  was  our  train ! "  she  cried. 
"Oh,  what  shall  we  do?" 

Herman  went  into  the  inn  and  made  inquiries,  while 
Miriam,  wild  with  impatience,  waited  to  hear  the  result. 
He  came  sauntering  out  to  the  door  in  a  few  minutes, 
opening  a  cigarette  case  and  counting  over  its  con- 
tents. 

"  Three,  four,  five,  six — it  is  indeed  true  that  we 
have  lost  the  train,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "  by  but  a  few 
minutes.  Come,  let  us  sit  in  the  porch  while  I  smoke. 
I  only  fear  I  have  not  enough  of  these  to  last  me  com- 
fortably over  the  night.  It  is  my  bad  habit  to  smoke 
if  I  cannot  sleep.  Perhaps  the  country  air  will  make 
me  sleepy."  He  sat  down  and  felt  in  his  pockets  for 
a  match  case ;  it  was  no  matter  to  him,  evidently,  to 
have  lost  the  train. 

"  Surely,  surely  there  is  another  train  to-night !  " 
poor  Miriam  cried,  in  perfect  despair  and  aggravation 
at  his  coolness. 

She  ran  into  the  house,  and  sought  out  the  landlady 
to  explain  to  a  feminine  ear  the  perplexity  she  was 
in.  But  Mrs.  Hicks  could  offer  no  comfort;  it  was 
impossible  to  get  to  London  till  the  next  morning. 
The  woman  was  sorry  for  her,  and  came  out  to  the 
door  to  discuss  the  difficulty  with  Herman. 

"  Why,  sir,"  she  said,  "  I'm  sorry  the  lady's  in  such 
a  way  about  it,  but  we'll  do  our  best  for  you,  sir. 
You'll  have  your  old  room,  sir,  and  the  lady — "  She 
paused,  and  glanced  at  Miriam  before  she  added  in  a 

239 


THE     LADDER 

tentative  way :  "  You've  gone  and  got  married  since 
Easter  last,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  since  Easter,"  said  Herman,  without  moving 
a  muscle.  "  I  was  married  long  before  that."  Mrs. 
Hicks  could  not  understand  Miriam's  agonized  blush, 
and  was  further  perplexed  when  she  cried  out :  "  I  am 
not  Mrs.  Herman ;  you  are  quite  mistaken." 

In  discussing  the  situation  a  little  later  with  her 
husband,  Mrs.  Hicks  confessed  herself  completely  in 
the  dark. 

"  Tisn't  as  if  the  young  woman  weren't  completely 
respectable,  George;  she's  not  the  other  kind,  not  in 
the  least.  Yet  she's  left  to  'erself,  indeed,  coming 
down  into  the  country  with  him,  as  if  they  were  man 
and  wife,  and  'im  so  musical,  too !  " 

"  Well,  then,"  said  George  stoutly,  "  looks  very 
much  as  if  she  weren't  so  respectable  as  you  say." 

"  Lor'  now,  George !  You  go  an'  'ave  a  look  at  her ; 
see  the  flat  heels  to  'er  shoes,  and  the  plain  looks  of  'er 
clothes ;  she  never  were  disrespectable,  that  one,  never. 
But  I'll  say  for  it,  she  should  be  careful  with  'im." 

Miriam,  in  the  meanwhile,  had  walked  over  to  the 
post  office  and  telegraphed  the  news  of  her  involun- 
tary delay  to  Cochrane.  She  felt  happier  after  this 
was  done.  After  all,  Cochrane  did  not  know  that  she 
was  not  alone,  and  would  only  commiserate  her  ill 
luck  in  missing  the  train.  No  harm  would  come  of 
the  adventure,  in  the  end;  no  one  could  even  hear 
about  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  very  seldom  have  people  stopping 
here  ?  "  she  asked  Mrs.  Hicks. 

"  Scarcely  anyone,  miss — ma'am — I  beg  your  par- 
240 


TO     THE     STARS 

don,"  said  Mrs.  Hicks,  not  quite  sure  by  which  title 
to  address  this  anomalous  person;  then,  to  cover  her 
confusion,  she  went  on  to  explain,  "  Scarcely  a  soul, 
unless  'tis  a  commercial  gentleman  now  and  again. 
We've  one  to-night;  not  that  he'll  disturb  you  at  din- 
ner, seein'  as  he  only  comes  in  late  for  an  'ot  supper." 

"  Oh,  nothing  will  disturb  us,"  said  Miriam,  feeling 
not  altogether  sorry  that  the  inn  was  so  little  fre- 
quented. 

"  We  shall  enjoy  the  evening,"  Herman  said.  "  Af- 
ter we  have  dined  we  shall  have  a  concert.  Mrs.  Hicks 
has  once  before  borrowed  for  me  a  fiddle  from  the 
cobbler ;  she  shall  do  it  again,  and  I  will  play  for  the 
people.  How  they  will  enjoy  it,  you  cannot  think !  " 
He  laughed  with  pleasure;  all  his  dull  mood  of  the 
afternoon  was  gone.  "  Then,  indeed,  you  shall  know 
how  clever  I  am,"  he  said  to  Miriam,  "  when  you  hear 
me  play  on  this  little  devil  of  a  village  fiddle ! " 

"  I  shall  also  learn  how  vain  you  are,"  said  she 
demurely.  Herman  held  out  his  hand  toward  her  sud- 
denly as  if  he  wished  her  to  examine  it. 

"  See !  "  he  cried.  "  See  how  it  has  been  formed 
from  the  beginning  for  this ;  have  /  made  it  ?  I  am  not 
religious,  I  have  not  been  at  Mass  or  confession  these 
dozen  years,  but  I  hold  this  from  God ;  it  is  given  to 
me  only.  I  am  not  proud  of  myself,  but  of  it — of  the 
thing  that  is  in  me." 

And  Miriam,  listening,  understood  and  believed  his 
words. 


241 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXXIV 

HERMAN  decreed  that  his  concert  was  to  be  held  in 
the  kitchen,  so  that  the  stable  men  and  laborers  might 
come  to  hear  him  in  their  working  dress. 

So,  after  dinner,  when  the  dusk  was  falling,  he  and 
Miriam  went  along  to  the  kitchen  where  the  audience 
was  already  assembled. 

It  was  a  large  old  room,  with  a  stone-flagged  floor, 
and  a  long  window  looking  out  into  the  yard.  Men  in 
stained  corduroys  and  women  in  sunbonnets  were 
standing  there  laughing  and  whispering.  Herman 
came  in  among  them  all,  so  curiously  different  from 
them,  holding  the  shabby  little  borrowed  fiddle  in  his 
hand.  He  stood  and  looked  round  the  room,  amused 
and  pleased  by  the  rustic  audience,  while  Miriam  was 
given  a  chair  in  the  place  of  honor  by  Mrs.  Hicks. 
She  noticed  with  keen  interest  the  contrast  presented 
by  Herman  and  his  audience;  the  faces  crowding 
round  him  had,  for  the  most  part,  that  curious  vacancy 
of  expression  that  is  so  marked  in  the  agricultural 
laborers  of  England.  Life  writes  little  on  such  faces, 
unless  it  is  a  look  of  almost  animal  suffering,  or  dull 
endurance  of  irremediable  hardships.  Among  the 
younger  women,  some  were  comely  enough,  in  their 
way,  but  it  was  an  inexpressive  comeliness ;  animal,  too, 
in  its  entire  dependence  on  youth  and  health.  They 
smiled  with  wide  red  lips  at  the  young  men  who 

242 


TO     THE     STARS 

stood  awkwardly  beside  them,  and  shouldered  them 
as  crowded  cattle  in  a  pen  shoulder  their  companions. 

And  there  among  them  Herman  stood,  erect  and 
smiling,  waiting  for  the  shuffle  of  their  feet  to  be  quiet 
before  he  began  to  play.  The  poise  of  his  figure  was 
extraordinarily  graceful  as  he  stood  among  these  un- 
trained rustics,  waiting  with  that  incomparable  com- 
posure of  his  for  the  noise  to  subside.  His  face, 
among  their  vacant  faces,  seemed  to  radiate  expres- 
sion ;  it  became  a  point  of  interest  to  which  every  eye 
was  drawn. 

When  silence  was  at  last  obtained,  Herman  spoke 
a  word  or  two  of  explanation  before  he  began  to  play. 

"  I  will  play  to  you  to-night  two  love  songs ;  the 
first  the  most  hopeless  I  know,  the  second  the  hap- 
piest," he  said. 

Then  he  began  to  draw  the  most  divinely  simple, 
sobbing  little  tune  out  of  the  borrowed  fiddle.  In  the 
silence  you  could  have  heard  the  proverbial  pin  fall. 
Not  the  most  untrained  listener  in  the  room  could 
misunderstand  what  the  tune  said — it  was  a  bit  of  the 
universal  language  that  all  men  know.  The  happy 
tune  which  followed  was  so  happy  that  a  ripple  of 
laughter  passed  over  the  crowd,  and  Miriam  laughed 
with  them  in  admiration  and  delight. 

Herman  played  on  thus,  one  thing  after  another,  for 
an  hour ;  then  he  bowed  to  the  people,  stepped  across 
to  where  Miriam  sat  and  held  out  his  hand  to  her, 
to  lead  her  from  the  room,  after  the  traditional  stage 
manner.  She  was  unacquainted  with  this  usage,  and 
gave  him  her  hand  rather  awkwardly,  and  he  led  her 
out  through  the  audience  into  the  passage  beyond. 

243 


THE     LADDER 

"  There,"  he  said,  pausing  for  a  moment  to  look 
back  into  the  kitchen.  "  How  the  poverini  enjoyed 
it!  And  I  have  but  just  escaped  from  such  a  life  as 
theirs.  But  for  this  "  (and  he  patted  the  fiddle),  "  but 
for  this  and  I  would  have  been  as  they  are." 

He  turned  and  walked  away  through  the  dark  pas- 
sage toward  the  coffee  room.  In  the  dim  light,  Mir- 
iam saw  him  raise  the  shabby  little  fiddle  to  his  lips  and 
kiss  it  passionately. 

She  understood  (who  better?)  why  he  did  so. 
Hadn't  she  kissed  a  heavy,  brown  paper  parcel  of  man- 
uscript, with  just  such  a  kiss? 

They  came  into  the  coffee  room  and  sat  down  to 
wait  till  some  refreshment  was  brought  to  them — 
"  some  of  this  vile  English  coffee,"  as  Herman  ex- 
pressed it. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted,  and  at  a  table  at  the 
other  end  of  it  the  commercial  gentleman  was  con- 
suming his  hot  supper.  His  back  was  turned  to  them, 
and  he  scarcely  looked  round,  when  they  came  into  the 
room.  But  a  few  minutes  later,  his  supper  having 
come  to  an  end,  the  commercial  gentleman  rose  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  room. 

Miriam  glanced  up  as  he  passed,  and  with  a  thrill 
of  entire  dismay  recognized  her  cousin  Timothy  Pillar. 
He  stood  still  beside  their  table  in  sheer  surprise,  gaz- 
ing first  at  Miriam,  then  at  Herman,  without  uttering 
a  single  word.  Herman  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and 
played  with  the  spoon  that  lay  in  the  saucer  of  his 
coffee  cup.  Then,  as  Timothy  still  stood  gazing  at 
them,  he  raised  his  eyes  in  an  inquiring  return  stare 
at  this  rude  stranger,  and  at  last  remarked : 

244 


TO     THE     STARS 

"Well,  sir?"  as  if  to  discover  the  reason  of  his 
curiosity.  The  question  brought  Timothy  to  his 
senses. 

"  Why,  Miriam,  who  would  have  thought  of  meet- 
ing you  here,  of  all  places  ?  "  he  said.  "  Who's  with 
you  ?  What  friends  have  you  got  here  ?  "  The  girl 
was  altogether  too  much  dismayed  to  speak  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  Herman,  with  imperturbable  composure, 
made  answer  for  her. 

"  I  am  Miss  Sadler's  friend  here.  I  am  with  her. 
We  have  missed  the  London  train." 

"  And  who  may  you  be  ?  "  Timothy  blurted  out. 

"  My  name  is  not  altogether  unknown.  It  is  Her- 
man, Francis  Herman,  if  this  enlightens  you,"  said  he. 

Timothy  drew  a  step  nearer  to  the  table,  his  eyes 
fixed  on  his  cousin,  who  now  began  to  falter  out  some 
words  of  introduction  between  the  two  men. 

"  This  is  my  cousin,  Mr.  Pillar,"  she  explained ;  and 
at  these  words  Herman  rose  politely  and  begged  Tim- 
othy to  join  them  at  their  coffee. 

"  I  never  drink  coffee ;  it's  beastly  stuff,  only  fit  for 
foreigners,"  was  Timothy's  gentle  reply  to  this  over- 
ture. 

Herman  did  not  take  any  notice  of  the  remark 
beyond  slightly  raising  his  eyebrows ;  but  Miriam 
shuddered;  she  knew  from  this  what  she  might 
expect. 

"  Now,  then,  sir,"  said  Timothy,  "  I  would  like  to 
speak  to  my  cousin  alone,  if  it  isn't  asking  too  much 
of  you  to  give  me  your  chair  for  a  few  minutes." 

"  Most  certainly  you  shall  have  it.  I  shall  smoke  at 
the  door  while  you  speak  with  Miss  Sadler,"  said  Her- 

245 


THE     LADDER 

man.    He  bowed  slightly  to  Miriam  and  sauntered  off 
toward  the  door,  looking  very  much  amused. 

Timothy  sat  heavily  down  on  the  chair  thus  vacated, 
twirled  the  gold  watch  chain  that  decorated  his  person, 
and  then  leaned  across  the  table  toward  his  cousin. 

"  Now,  Miriam,  will  you  kindly  explain  this  to 
me?"  he  said.  "As  your  cousin,  one  of  the  Pillars, 
I  must  have  an  explanation  of  what,  on  the  face  of  it, 
seems  very  unsuitable  conduct ;  indeed,  I'll  say  more, 
it's  disreputable." 

Miriam  had  always  disliked  her  cousin  Timothy,  and 
his  interference  just  then  was  intolerable  to  her. 

"  There's  nothing  to  explain,"  she  said  hotly,  "  ex- 
cept what  Mr.  Herman  has  told  you  already.  I  came 
down  here  to  spend  the  afternoon  with  him,  and  we 
missed  the  train;  that's  all,  and  if  you  choose  to  call 
that  disreputable,  I  am  sorry  for  you." 

"  You  always  were  a  foolish  sort  of  girl,"  Timothy 
went  on ;  "  and,  of  course,  you  can't  be  expected  to 
know  anything  of  life ;  but  you  might  know  better  than 
to  throw  away  your  good  name  altogether  by  acting 
in  this  way." 

"  You  are  making  a  great  deal  out  of  nothing," 
Miriam  said  doggedly.  "  I  have  explained  to  you 
about  missing  the  train,  and  surely  anyone  is  liable 
to  do  that  without  losing  their  good  name  ?  " 

"  Missed  the  train !  That's  an  odd  excuse.  I  wonder 
how  often  that  foreign-looking  fellow  has  '  missed  a 
train '  before,  in  similar  circumstances !  And  how 
many  trains  will  he  miss  to-morrow?  How  did  you 
come  to  know  him,  I'd  like  to  know?" 

Miriam  rose  from  her  chair,  hot  with  indignation. 
246 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I  won't  stay  here  to  hear  you  say  things  like  that, 
Timothy,"  she  said.  "  You  are  not  only  insulting  my 
friend,  but  insulting  me,  and  I  won't  listen  to  you." 

"  Stop  a  minute ;  wait  and  speak  to  me,"  Timothy 
called  after  her ;  but  she  did  not  wait  to  hear  another 
word  from  him.  She  ran  upstairs,  shut  and  locked 
the  door  of  her  room,  and  flung  herself  down  by  the 
open  window,  leaning  her  arms  on  the  ledge.  Only 
too  well  she  knew  the  story  that  Timothy  would  carry 
back  to  Hindcup,  and  the  sting  of  the  whole  affair  was 
that  he  could  scarcely  be  blamed  for  thinking  what  he 
did  about  her. 

In  imagination  she  already  heard  the  cousins  gos- 
siping over  her  conduct. 

"  I  won't  have  a  rag  of  a  character  left  among  them 
all,"  she  thought.  One  by  one  her  links  with  her  own 
people  had  been  broken ;  here  was  another  gone.  They 
had  distrusted  her  ideas  before,  they  would  distrust 
her  conduct  now. 

Down  below  the  window  Miriam  could  just  dis- 
tinguish Herman's  figure  as  he  paced  up  and  down 
before  the  inn  door  smoking.  Sometimes  he  would 
whistle  a  bar  or  two  of  one  of  the  tunes  he  had  been 
playing.  He  whistled  with  a  wonderfully  full,  liquid 
note,  like  the  song  of  a  blackbird ;  and  sometimes  he 
would  introduce  little  grace  notes  and  flourishes  into 
the  tune  so  deftly  and  exquisitely  that  it  almost  made 
her  laugh  to  hear  them. 

Then  Timothy  came  out  to  the  door  and  joined 
Herman. 

"  May  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?  "  she  heard  him  ask ; 
and  Herman's  reply  also  reached  her  ears : 

247 


THE     LADDER 

"As  many  as  you  wish!  Shall  we  walk  down  the 
road?" 

Further  than  this  she  could  not  hear;  but  shortly 
after  a  heavy  step  ascended  the  stair,  a  door  was  closed 
with  a  bang  and  opened  again  a  few  minutes  later  as 
Timothy  put  his  boots  out  into  the  passage.  Then 
another  bang  and  all  was  quiet. 


248 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XXXV 

MIRIAM  never  heard  what  had  transpired  between 
Herman  and  her  cousin  Timothy.  When  she  came 
down  to  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Herman  seemed 
to  be  in  a  very  good  humor,  and  Timothy  had  not  yet 
appeared. 

"  I  wanted  to  apologize  to  you  for  my  cousin's  rude- 
ness to  you  last  night,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  down. 
Herman  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"  Do  not  annoy  yourself,"  he  said.  "  It  is  no  good. 
Here  is  breakfast;  better  far  to  eat  it  and  think  no 
more  of  the  ugly  cousin." 

She  took  his  advice  and  ate  her  breakfast  as  well 
as  she  could.  But  as  soon  as  the  meal  was  over,  she 
insisted  on  starting  for  the  railway  station  in  case  they 
should  again  miss  the  train.  This,  of  course,  resulted 
in  a  wait  of  twenty  minutes'  duration,  and  Miriam, 
glancing  along  the  platform,  descried  a  pile  of  cases, 
which  she  knew  must  belong  to  Timothy.  He  must 
be  going  to  travel  by  the  same  train  with  them.  Mir- 
iam walked  as  far  away  from  the  boxes  as  she  could, 
and  kept  looking  apprehensively  in  their  direction 
while  she  talked  to  Herman. 

At  the  last  moment  Timothy  arrived,  but  he  did  not 
even  glance  up  the  platform,  and  she  saw  him  get  into 
a  carriage  at  the  other  end  of  the  train. 

"  Now,  perhaps  you  will  be  cheerful,  now  that  the 
249 


THE     LADDER 

ugly  cousin  is  out  of  the  way,"  said  Herman,  as  he 
shut  the  door  of  their  carriage.  But  Miriam  did  not 
feel  cheerful,  she  could  not  speak,  and  at  last  Her- 
man told  her  that  she  was  cross,  and  began  to  read  a 
newspaper.  She  sat  back  into  the  corner  of  the  car- 
riage and  felt  very  unhappy  indeed.  As  they  came 
near  London,  Herman  put  down  his  newspaper  and 
came  and  sat  beside  her. 

"  You  will  think  of  me  this  afternoon,  when  I 
play  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  Miriam  answered.  She  made  the 
promise  readily  enough,  knowing  that  she  would  prob- 
ably think  of  him  several  times  before  that. 

"  And  you  ?  What  will  you  do  the  rest  of  the  long 
day  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  shall  sit  in  my  little  room,  looking  out  over  the 
roofs,  and  write  some  of  my  worthless  pages  that  never 
please  me,  and  then  perhaps  tear  them  up,  and  go 
downstairs  and  have  tea  and  buttered  muffins  with 
Cochrane ;  that  will  be  my  interesting  day,"  she  said. 

"  I  blush  for  you ! "  Herman  said.  "  I  hear  you 
speak  evil  of  your  trade ;  this  dear  trade  which  indeed 
is  the  interest  and  value  of  life  for  you " 

Miriam  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  just  a  moment  of  discouragement,"  she  told 
him ;  "  of  not  thinking  it  worth  while." 

"  So  I  have  felt  many  times,"  he  said  quickly.  He 
lifted  Miriam's  hand,  and  held  it  in  his  as  he  spoke. 
"  I  wonder  how  often  I  have  said :  '  Let  this  music  be 
drowned  in  the  deep  seas,  so  that  I  may  live  and  be 
merry.'  But  a  hundred  years  hence  what  will  it  mat- 
ter to  the  world  whether  I  have  been  happy  or  sad? 

250 


TO     THE     STARS 

But  it  may  matter  if  I  made  some  little  tune  for  men 
to  dance  to,  one  song  for  them  to  sing." 

Miriam  turned  and  looked  into  his  face.  For  just 
a  moment  their  eyes  met,  and  the  next  moment  Her- 
man bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

It  seemed  to  Miriam  that  years  of  life  separated  her 
in  one  moment  from  all  her  past. 

"  The  thing  has  happened  to  me  that  I  have  heard 
other  women  speak  about,"  she  thought.  "  This  man 
wants  me,  and  me  alone;  and  I  am  not  beautiful,  or 
attractive;  so  it  is  my  own  self  that  he  wants;  just 
what  other  people  do  not  like." 

But,  then,  Herman  was  married ;  and  there  was  the 
end  of  it  all. 

The  train  ran  into  the  station,  and  Miriam  rose 
mechanically.  Neither  of  them  had  spoken  a  word. 
Herman  jumped  out  and  held  out  his  hand  to  help  her 
to  alight.  She  took  it,  and  then  stood  there  for  a  mo- 
ment, feeling  stupefied.  She  heard  people  round  them 
utter  Herman's  name,  and  saw  them  point  him  out; 
they  looked  curiously  at  her,  too,  and  under  their  gaze 
she  blushed  hotly.  It  seemed  to  her  that  everyone  on 
that  platform  must  see  that  Herman  had  just  kissed 
her.  She  put  up  her  hand  to  her  cheek,  feeling  as  if  a 
scarlet  patch  must  mark  the  place  where  the  kiss  had 
fallen. 

In  the  distance  she  saw  Timothy  advancing  up  the 
platform. 

"  Come,"  said  Herman ;  "  why  do  we  stand  still  ? 
The  crowd  gets  thicker  where  we  stand." 

They  passed  along  to  the  cabstand,  and  he  stood  still 
there  for  a  minute,  looking  at  her. 

251 


THE     LADDER 

"  It  is  good-by  just  now,  then,"  he  said,  "  and  I 
come  to  see  you  when  ?  " 

"  Oh,  never,  never !  I  mean — good-by,"  cried  Mir- 
iam ;  and  hurried  into  the  nearest  vehicle  without  even 
giving  him  her  hand. 

Cochrane  met  her  at  the  door  when  the  cab  drew 
up ;  she  seemed  to  have  been  on  the  lookout  for  her. 

"  It  was  unfortunate  your  losing  the  train,"  she  said, 
with  a  grave  glance  at  Miriam's  still  flushed  face,  and 
adding,  "  it'll  have  cost  you  something,  too  ?  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  Miriam  made 
up  her  mind.  Was  she  going  to  tell  Cochrane  or  not  ? 
She  decided  to  be  silent.  Time  enough,  if  the  story 
reached  her  ears  from  any  other  source. 

"  It  was  very  provoking,"  she  replied,  taking  no 
direct  notice  of  the  question.  "  I  wanted  to  get  home 
in  time  to  do  some  work  that  Mr.  Courteis  wanted." 

"  Maybe  a  rest  from  all  that  writing  was  good  for 
you ;  but  you  don't  look  very  well,"  said  Cochrane. 

"  Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I'll  just  go  upstairs  and  see 
if  I  can  get  the  work  done  before  dinner,"  said  Miriam. 

But  when  she  reached  her  own  room  she  found  she 
could  not  write. 

"  He  kissed  me — kissed  me — kissed  me !  "  she  re- 
peated over  and  over  to  herself  incredulously.  "  How 
strange  it  was,  and  he  is  married.  He  had  no  right  to 
do  it ;  but  he  has  different  ideas  about  right  and  wrong. 
I  wonder  if  they  can  possibly  be  true?  Could  it  pos- 
sibly be  right?  Must  I  refuse  ever  to  see  him  again, 
as  the  good  women  in  books  do?  But  books  are  not 
life;  what  do  women  in  real  life  do?  It  seems  wrong, 
and  yet  how  am  I  going  to  shut  him  out  of  my  life 

252 


TO     THE     STARS 

when  he  interests  me  so  profoundly  ?  He  is  wonderful, 
and  unlike  everyone  else — and  yet  I  would  not  be  a 
fool  to  care  for  him;  he  has  come  up  out  of  the  dust 
just  as  I  have,  into  a  world  of  his  own  making." 

Herman's  face,  his  fearful  black  eyes,  the  charming 
smile  on  his  young  mouth  haunted  her  memory  per- 
sistently. She  took  up  her  pen  and  tried  to  write,  but 
it  was  not  any  use  to  do  so;  always  Herman's  face 
came  between.  When  the  bell  rang  for  dinner  at  two 
o'clock,  she  went  downstairs  without  having  written 
a  single  line. 

"  I  hope  you  got  on  with  your  work  ?  "  Cochrane 
asked. 

"  No ;  I  couldn't  write  a  word,"  she  confessed. 

"  Dear  me !  the  country  air  hasn't  agreed  with  you." 

"  I  think  I  shall  try  to  sleep  after  dinner,  and  then 
perhaps  have  a  walk ;  it  may  clear  up  my  ideas,"  said 
Miriam. 

Sleep,  however,  was  not  to  be  any  more  successfully 
wooed  than  art;  and  in  the  late  afternoon  she  went 
out.  Without  saying  definitely  to  herself  where  she 
meant  to  go,  or  what  she  meant  to  do,  somehow  her 
steps  turned  toward  Piccadilly,  and  she  found  herself 
wondering  if  St.  James's  Hall  was  very  far  away. 
She  walked  quickly  along  until  she  came  to  it.  There 
the  street  was  blocked  with  a  row  of  carriages,  and  a 
crowd  filled  the  pavement.  Miriam  stood  among  them 
and  looked  and  listened.  She  saw  the  carriages  being 
filled  and  sent  quickly  off  by  the  policemen,  one  after 
another;  but  still  a  little  knot  of  people  lingered  near 
the  door  of  the  Hall.  She  turned  to  two  shopgirls  be- 
side her  and  asked  what  everyone  was  waiting  for  now. 
17  253 


THE     LADDER 

"  Some  one  still  to  come  out,  I  suppose,"  the  girl  an- 
swered, and  turned  to  speak  to  her  companion.  Mir- 
iam fell  behind  the  two  girls,  and  watched  to  see  who 
would  come.  Then  a  little  brougham  came  along  and 
drew  up  by  the  curb.  After  a  minute  or  two  a  man 
came  out  and  put  a  violin  case  into  the  carriage,  and 
the  people  who  were  waiting  drew  nearer  together  and 
looked  impatiently  toward  the  door.  A  policeman 
asked  them  to  step  back,  and  then  Herman  came  out. 
He  looked  ten  years  older,  she  thought,  since  the 
morning ;  his  face  was  white  and  tired-looking,  his  eyes 
blacker  than  ever.  He  wore  a  soft  felt  hat  crushed 
down  over  his  brow,  and  without  looking  to  one  side 
or  the  other  he  walked  through  the  crowd  to  his  car- 
riage, got  in,  and  drew  up  the  window.  The  carriage 
immediately  drove  off,  and  the  crowd  of  people  soon 
melted  away. 

"  Wouldn't  like  'im  to  kiss  me,"  laughed  one  of  the 
shopgirls,  as  they  walked  on ;  "  fairly  gives  me  the 
shivers  to  look  at  'im." 

Miriam  turned  away,  a  little  smile  lurking  at  the 
corners  of  her  mouth. 

"  Perhaps  it's  not  as  disagreeable  as  she  thinks," 
she  said  to  herself. 

All  that  evening  she  was  very  silent.  Cochrane  tried 
to  get  her  to  talk,  by  direct  questioning. 

"  Are  you  going  to  any  of  your  Sunday  tea  parties 
to-morrow  ?  "  she  asked ;  "  or  are  you  coming  to  the 
City  Temple  with  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  am  going  to  shut  myself  up  and  write  all 
day." 

"  Well,  to  my  mind  the  Sabbath  should  be  a  day 
254 


TO     THE     STARS 

of  rest;  but  you've  a  right  to  your  own  opinions,  of 
course,"  said  Cochrane. 

"  I  think  my  work  is  the  one  good  thing  about  me ; 
the  one  thing  that  God  can  possibly  look  on  with  satis- 
faction," said  Miriam  gravely. 

"  Well,  well !  I  wonder  often  what  you'll  make  of 
your  life,"  said  the  older  woman,  as  she  gathered  up 
her  work  and  began  to  tidy  up  the  room  for  the  night. 
She  knew  that  something  was  troubling  Miriam,  but 
had  too  much  good  sense  to  try  to  force  her  confidence. 

"  It's  a  pity  I  wasn't  younger,"  she  thought.  "  She 
might  have  told  a  younger  person ;  and  I've  a  dry,  stiff 
way  with  me  that  doesn't  show  what  I'm  feeling.  I'm 
sure  I'm  sorry  for  her ;  so  unlike  her  people,  and  that 
clever  she's  separated  from  most  of  the  world  by  it. 
I'm  sure  it's  a  misfortune  to  a  woman  to  be  born 
clever,  and  no  mistake." 

But  Miriam,  unaware  of  all  this  unexpressed  sym- 
pathy, kept  the  trouble  and  perplexity  to  herself. 


255 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXXVI 

TIMOTHY  PILLAR  generally  went  home  to  Hindcup 
from  Saturday  to  Monday  each  week,  so  Miriam's  re- 
lations heard,  without  much  delay,  the  story  he  had  to 
tell-  about  her. 

Sunday  was  a  grilling  day,  and  Timothy,  tired  with 
business,  did  not  rise  early  or  go  to  church.  But  in 
the  afternoon,  very  fine  in  a  white  waistcoat,  he  set 
out  to  call  upon  his  sister,  Maggie  Broadman. 

Maggie,  as  the  "  best  married,"  most  prosperous  Pil- 
lar, was  always  supposed  to  be  the  one  whose  advice 
was  most  to  be  regarded ;  for,  with  many  people,  pros- 
perity is  considered  synonymous  with  wisdom,  though 
it  is  hard  to  say  why  it  should  be. 

Maggie  had  sent  her  husband  out  for  his  Sabbatic 
walk  with  the  children,  and  she  was  sitting  dozing  in 
a  plush  armchair  when  Timothy  was  "  shown  in  "  (as 
she  would  have  herself  expressed  it)  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

They  had  not  spoken  many  words  to  each  other  be- 
fore Maggie  divined  that  her  brother  had  something 
of  interest  to  tell  her.  His  mouth  was  pursed,  his  eye 
bright ;  he  pushed  aside  as  trivial  several  topics  which 
on  another  occasion  would  have  interested  him. 

"  The  fact  is,  Maggie,  I've  something  very  extraor- 
dinary to  tell  you,"  he  said  at  last ;  "  extraordinary  and 
very  sad ;  it's  Miriam  again." 

256 


TO     THE     STARS 

Maggie  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  his,  in  an  ecstasy 
of  curiosity. 

"  Miriam !  Whatever  has  she  been  up  to  next, 
Tim  ?  "  she  asked. 

Timothy  leaned  back  in  his  chair  (which  was  one  of 
those  wretched  three-cornered  seats,  the  very  acme  of 
discomfort  to  a  man  of  his  size,  but  he  did  not  seem 
to  notice  its  angles  at  that  moment),  folded  his  fat 
hands  across  his  white  waistcoat,  and  pursed  up  his 
mouth  still  more,  as  if  to  keep  back  the  flood  of  news 
that  nearly  overwhelmed  his  speech.  And  at  last, 
when  the  auspicious  moment  seemed  to  have  arrived, 
he  burst  forth: 

"  She  appears  to  have  formed  an  illicit  connection 
with — "  He  paused,  and  Maggie,  whose  curiosity  now 
amounted  to  agony,  cried  out : 

"  Whom  ?    Whom,  Timothy  ?  " 

"  With  Herman,  the  well-known  violinist."  It  was, 
indeed,  no  anticlimax. 

Maggie  flung  herself  back  into  the  plush  armchair. 

"  Timothy,  it's  impossible !  "  she  cried ;  and  then, 
true  to  her  nature,  instead  of  pitying  poor  Miriam's 
fall,  she  exclaimed : 

"  I  didn't  think  any  man  would  look  at  her ;  I  don't 
believe  it ;  men  all  hate  her ;  you've  been  mistaken.  It 
can't  be." 

"  There's  no  mistake.  I  met  them  staying  alone  to- 
gether at  a  village  inn  in  Hampshire.  I  confronted 
her.  I  told  her  her  conduct  was  disreputable,  and  as 
a  cousin  I  must  have  some  explanation.  But  all  she 
did  was  to  offer  the  old  explanation  of  '  missing  the 
train ' ;  and  when  I  said  that  cock  wouldn't  fight,  she 

257 


THE     LADDER 

said  I  was  insulting  her  and  him,  and  left  the  room. 
I  saw  them  go  off  to  London  together  next  morning 
— private  first-class  carriage,  no  less.  I  never  looked 
at  her  after  what  had  passed  between  us  the  night  be- 
fore; but  I  watched  them,  you  may  be  sure." 

Maggie  leaned  back  in  her  chair  perfectly  overcome 
by  this  story. 

"  I  never  did  hear  anything  like  it,"  she  said.  If 
she  had  been  quite  honest,  Maggie  would  have  con- 
fessed that  her  respect  for  Miriam,  instead  of  being 
lessened,  was  increased  by  the  fact  that  any  man  should 
care  to  go  about  with  her. 

But  few  people  are  quite  honest,  even  with  them- 
selves; and  Maggie  assumed  an  appearance  of  entire 
dismay. 

"  How  do  you  suppose  she  ever  got  speaking  with  a 
man  like  that?  And  then,  to  think  that  he  cared — 
with  Miriam !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  It's  very  remarkable,"  Timothy  admitted.  "  For 
my  own  part,  cousin  though  she  is,  I  never  found  a 
word  to  say  to  her — and  plain-looking  too." 

"  Who  will  tell  her  mother  ?  "  Maggie  asked.  "  She 
must  be  told.  I've  no  doubt  she  will  go  up  to  London 
and  try  to  do  her  best  for  her." 

"  I  think  you  should  tell  her.  You  could  do  it  very 
delicately,"  said  Timothy.  "  And  I  will  take  a  walk 
across  to  the  Manor  and  tell  Aunt  Pillar ;  she  may  as 
well  hear  it  soon  as  late.  But  you  must  tell  her 
mother." 

"  I'm  sure  it's  a  terrible  thing  to  have  to  do,"  said 
Maggie,  who  was  in  reality  casting  about  in  her  mind 
for  the  most  effective  words  in  which  to  convey  the 

258 


TO     THE     STARS 

news  to  Miriam's  mother,  and  quite  enjoying  the  pros- 
pect of  telling  such  a  dramatic  story. 

"  Tell  me,  Timothy,  how  did  she  look  ?  Had  she  on 
very  fine  clothes?  I  suppose  they  always  keep  them 
in  the  greatest  luxury." 

"  Well,  I  can't  say  I  noticed  anything  the  least  dif- 
ferent about  her  dress,"  Timothy  admitted.  "  But  I 
wouldn't  be  likely  to." 

"  Dress  was  never  any  temptation  to  Miriam,"  said 
her  cousin,  and  then  she  added :  "  You  know,  Tim,  if 
anyone  is  to  go  and  deal  with  her  it  must  be  Aunt 
Pillar.  Aunt  Priscilla  never  could  deal  with  anyone ; 
she's  far  too  soft." 

Timothy  quite  agreed  with  this.  Aunt  Pillar  had  al- 
ways been  the  family  oracle  to  whom  everything  was 
referred,  and  she,  if  anyone,  must  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  London  to  remonstrate  with  this  erring  young  rela- 
tive. It  seemed  as  if  Aunt  Pillar  had  in  a  remote  way 
been  the  reason  of  Miriam's  going  to  London ;  for  was 
it  not  under  her  eye  that  she  had  first  met  these  Gores 
who  had  so  completely  "  turned  her  head,"  by  lending 
her  unsuitable  books,  and  doubtless  introducing  her  to 
unsuitable  people?  Remembering  all  this,  Timothy 
and  Maggie  agreed  between  them  that  Aunt  Pillar 
must  be  the  chosen  instrument  of  expressing  the 
family  indignation. 

"  I  almost  think  you  should  take  a  fly  this  afternoon, 
Timothy,"  Maggie  said ;  and  again  the  brother  and 
sister  agreed.  It  seemed  to  add  solemnity  to  this  pil- 
grimage that  Timothy  should  arrive  at  the  Manor 
gates  in  a  fly. 

Timothy  was  a  great  favorite  with  Aunt  Pillar,  and 
259 


THE     LADDER 

she  contrived  that  all  the  wineglasses  used  in  the 
Joyce  establishment  were  bought  from  that  firm  of 
glass  and  china  merchants  which  he  represented. 
Timothy,  in  his  turn,  contrived  that  the  wineglasses 
were  got  at  "  a  low  figure,  considering  the  crests ;  as 
low,"  he  would  say,  "  as  we  can  possibly  do."  Ah, 
what  an  Eden  this  world  would  be  if  all  families  could 
thus  play  into  each  other's  hands ! 

Aunt  Pillar,  then,  received  her  nephew  warmly. 
She  would  have  sent  at  once  for  Mr.  Hoskins,  the 
butler,  but  Timothy  stopped  her  with  a  wave  of  the 
hand. 

"  Not  at  once,  aunt,"  he  said.  "  I'll  have  some 
private  talk  with  you  first." 

"  Nothing  wrong  with  any  of  my  little  investments, 
I  hope  ?  "  asked  Aunt  Pillar,  whose  affairs  were  under 
Timothy's  eye. 

"  Nothing  at  all.  I'd  better  go  straight  to  the  point 
and  tell  you  it's  Miriam  Sadler  once  again." 

"  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Aunt  Pillar.  But  she  was 
fain  to  admit,  when  Timothy  had  told  his  story,  that 
she  was  very  much  surprised,  indeed. 

"  It's  nothing  short  of  a  disaster  to  our  family,"  she 
said.  "  If  I  hadn't  been  for  thirty  years  at  the  Manor 
it  might  even  have  cost  me  my  situation  here.  A  fam- 
ily like  the  Joyce  family  like  to  have  all  their  subordi- 
nates above  reproach.  There  was  that  head  housemaid 
we  had  for  five  years,  her  sister,  the  kitchenmaid,  had 
a  child  to  the  head  groom;  and  after  that  nothing 
would  please  her  ladyship  but  the  whole  boiling  must 
go — Emma,  as  had  been  such  a  comfort  to  me  these 
five  years,  just  as  surely  as  poor  silly  Hannah,  and 

260 


TO     THE     STARS 

Evans  the  groom.     You've  no  idea  how  particular 
they  are." 

Timothy  listened  with  some  impatience  to  this  long 
case  in  point,  as  Aunt  Pillar  supposed  it  to  be ;  then  he 
returned  to  the  original  theme. 

"  Now,  aunt,  I've  talked  the  subject  over  with 
Maggie,  and  we  both  feel  that  you  are  the  person  to 
go  up  to  London  and  look  after  Miriam.  Aunt  Pris- 
cilla  is  too  weak  to  do  it,  and  Miriam  would  pay  no 
attention  to  any  of  us.  As  I  told  you,  she  paid  none 
to  me." 

"  I  haven't  asked  for  a  holiday  for  many  a  year. 
I  wonder  could  I  be  spared?  The  very  thick  of  the 
jelly  season,  and  a  new  cook,  too,"  Aunt  Pillar  said, 
hesitating. 

"  Well,  surely  our  reputation  as  a  family  is  more 
worth  preserving  than  fruit  is,"  said  Timothy,  with 
an  unusual  essay  at  wit. 

"  You  scarcely  understand  the  business  preserving 
is  in  a  house  like  ours,"  Aunt  Pillar  protested.  And 
then  compressing  her  lips,  she  added :  "  And  maybe 
it's  too  late  to  save  her,  and  the  best  we  can  do  is  to 
say  nothing  and  just  let  her  disappear." 

Aunt  Pillar  threw  an  awful  emphasis  and  significa- 
tion into  this  last  word.  It  seemed  to  describe  poor 
Miriam's  descent  into  the  fearful  pit  and  the  miry 
clay. 

"  Well,  that  is  what  we  must  find  out,  and  whether 
this  was  a  casual  connection,  or  if  she  is  living  openly 
with  him,"  said  Timothy  briskly.  "  You  know  Miss 
Cochrane,  aunt ;  you  can  find  out  the  truth  easily  from 
her ;  she  must  know  if  Miriam  has  left  her  house." 

261 


THE     LADDER 

"  That's  true.    A  telegram  will  do  that." 

"  And  if  she  hasn't  left  the  house,  the  sooner  she's 
brought  home  and  looked  after,  the  better.  If  she  has, 
if  she's  gone  off  with  him,  there's  very  little  can  be 
done." 

"  She  won't  come  home,  not  since  Priscilla  mar- 
ried." 

"  Make  her  come,"  said  Timothy. 

But  Aunt  Pillar  shook  her  head. 

"  Miriam's  a  grown  woman,  Timothy,  and  not  any 
one  of  us  can  take  her  home  against  her  will.  Of 
course  her  mother  might  refuse  to  give  her  money  to 
live  on,  but  that  only  might  make  the  matter  worse. 
I'll  go  and  do  my  best;  and  if  that  fails,  I'll  get  the 
Gores  to  help  me." 

To  any  hearing  ear  or  understanding  heart,  it  had 
been  almost  pitiful — the  tone  in  which  Aunt  Pillar 
mentioned  the  Gores.  The  aristocracy  were  her 
divinities ;  so  might  a  more  faithful  heart  have  called 
in  its  extremity  to  the  Almighty. 

With  commendable  prudence,  the  aunt  and  nephew 
decided  that  what  must  be  a  slightly  incriminating  tele- 
gram to  Cochrane  should  not  pass  through  the  Hind- 
cup  office.  Timothy  would  dispatch  the  message  from 
Birmingham  the  next  day. 

It  was  only  after  this  decision  had  been  arrived  at 
that  Hoskins  was  summoned  for  a  long  conversation 
on  wineglasses.  He  accompanied  Timothy  to  the 
door  after  half  an  hour  of  this  exhilarating  topic,  say- 
ing as  they  parted : 

"  We  could  do  with  another  dozen  of  the  crested 
champagnes,  Pillar,  at  thirty-two  shillings ;  and  if 

262 


TO     THE     STARS 

you   can   do   them   at   thirty    shillings,    so   much   the 
better." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Timothy, 
and  no  one  guessed  that  any  other  errand  had  brought 
him  that  hot  afternoon  to  the  Manor. 


263 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XXXVII 

MIRIAM  was  sitting  reading  on  Monday  morning 
when  Cochrane  came  in  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"  Whatever  does  this  mean  ?  "  she  asked.  "  Here's 
a  telegram  from  your  aunt,  Mrs.  Pillar,  asking  if  you 
are  still  with  me.  It's  been  sent  from  Birmingham, 
too,  not  from  Hindcup,  and  I'm  to  wire  reply.  Had 
you  any  word  of  leaving  me,  my  dear,  that  they  should 
ask?" 

Miriam  read  the  telegram  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  never  once  thought  of  leaving  you,"  she  assured 
Cochrane ;  but  she  blushed  hotly  as  she  spoke,  for  the 
real  meaning  of  the  telegram  was  quite  plain  to  her. 

"  What  am  I  to  say,  then  ?  "  Cochrane  asked. 

"  Oh,  just  say, '  Never  thought  of  leaving  ' ;  that  will 
put  it  right.  There  must  be  some  mistake,  surely," 
the  girl  replied. 

But  in  spite  of  this  reassuring  message,  she  was 
scarcely  surprised  the  next  afternoon  to  be  told  that 
her  Aunt  Pillar  was  in  the  parlor,  and  wished  to  see 
her. 

"  I  hope  there's  no  family  affliction  of  any  kind," 
Cochrane  added.  "  She  looks  real  solemn." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Miriam,  laying  aside  her  work. 
She  knew  pretty  well  what  she  would  have  to  face 
now. 

Aunt  Pillar  was  sitting  on  the  sofa,  her  fat  feet  well 
264 


TO     THE     STARS 

stretched  out  before  her.  She  wore  a  black  silk  gown, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  heat,  a  black  velvet  cloak  heavily 
trimmed  with  beads.  In  her  hand  she  carried  a  little 
maroon  leather  reticule.  She  had  just  opened  this  and 
taken  out  her  handkerchief  to  wipe  off  the  beads  of 
perspiration  from  her  forehead. 

"  Why,  Aunt  Pillar,  I  never  expected  to  see  you  here. 
What  has  brought  you  to  London  ? "  Miriam  said, 
rushing  upon  disaster  in  this  her  first  sentence. 

"  You  should  know,"  Aunt  Pillar  replied  grimly. 
There  was  going  to  be  no  beating  about  the  bush  be- 
tween her  and  her  niece. 

"  I  suppose  Timothy  has  made  up  some  story  about 
me,  and  that  you  believe  it,  and  probably  my  cousins 
believe  it;  and  perhaps  even  my  mother  does  so?  " 

"  I've  never  had  any  reason  to  doubt  Timothy's 
word  yet,"  said  Aunt  Pillar. 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  as  he  had  met  you  staying  alone  at  an  inn 
with  a  foreigner,  Miriam  Sadler;  and  I  defy  you  to 
deny  it." 

"  I  don't  deny  it,  Aunt  Pillar ;  because  it  is  true.  I 
did  go  down  to  the  country  with  a  friend,  and  lost  my 
train,  and  had  to  stay  all  night  at  the  inn ;  but  I  don't 
see  why  all  my  people  should  think  evil  of  me  because 
of  that." 

"  I  do,"  said  Aunt  Pillar.  "  Respectable  young 
women  don't  lose  their  trains,  or  their  characters  in 
that  way." 

"  The  truth  is  that  you  and  all  my  family  have  al- 
ways disliked  me,  and  wanted  to  make  me  out  in  the 
wrong  ever  since  I  was  a  child,"  said  Miriam  bitterly. 

265 


THE     LADDER 

The  pained  sound  in  her  voice  made  Aunt  Pillar 
think  for  a  moment  that  she  had  perhaps  spoken  too 
harshly  to  her  niece. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  you're  speaking  nonsense. 
We're  not  a  family  that  like  to  run  each  other  down, 
as  you  know ;  we're  all  anxious  to  keep  up  the  credit 
of  the  connection.  There's  perhaps  been  a  little  feel- 
ing between  you  and  your  cousins  that  was  natural 
enough  on  your  side ;  they  all  marrying  so  well,  and 
being  so  much  thought  of,  and  you  a  bit  in  the  shade ; 
but  that's  no  reason  for  you  to  be  so  bitter." 

Miriam  smiled,  but  said  nothing,  and  Aunt  Pillar 
went  on: 

"  Now,  just  to  show  you  the  truth  of  what  I  say, 
I've  come  to  make  you  an  offer.  We  talked  it  over 
yesterday,  your  mother  and  your  cousins  and  me,  and 
here  it  is:  you're  to  come  home " 

"  But,"  Miriam  began.  Aunt  Pillar  waved  her 
down  and  continued : 

"  We  knew  what  you  would  say,  that  you  couldn't 
and  wouldn't  come  back  to  your  mother's  house  now 
she's  married  Smaile.  So  we  considered,  and  Mat- 
tie  has  offered  to  take  you  in.  She's  expecting  again 
in  autumn,  is  Mattie,  and  so  you  would  have  some  oc- 
cupation looking  after  number  one  while  Mattie  looked 
after  number  two.  There's  always  plenty  to  do  where 
there's  two  young  children ;  sewing  needed,  and  what 
not.  It  would  keep  you  employed  and  out  of  mischief ; 
and  Mattie  said  to  tell  you  with  her  love  that  bygones 
would  be  bygones." 

Miriam  essayed  speech  once  more,  and  once  more 
was  silenced  by  Aunt  Pillar's  torrent  of  words. 

266 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Now,  don't  say  you  won't,  Miriam ;  for  a  young 
woman  in  the  position  you  find  yourself  in  now,  it's 
a  wonderful  offer.  Here  you  get  the  offer  to  be  re- 
ceived back  again  into  a  respectable  connection  as  if 
nothing  had  happened,  and  many  a  family  would  never 
have  owned  you  again." 

"  Nothing  has  '  happened,'  as  you  express  it,  Aunt 
Pillar,"  said  Miriam.  "  My  life  is  exactly  what  it  has 
always  been,  and  Mattie  need  not  trouble  to  offer  me 
an  asylum." 

"  You  mean  to  refuse  her  offer,  then  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Then  you  mean  to  stay  in  London  and  have  more 
of  these  on-goings  with  this  Frenchman,  or  whatever 
he  is?" 

"  I  mean  to  stay  in  London." 

"  And  what  about  the  Frenchman  ?  "  Aunt  Pillar 
urged. 

"  He  has  never  said  a  word  to  me  that  might  not 
have  been  said  before  the  whole  world,"  she  said. 

"  Don't  sit  there  and  tell  me  there's  nothing  between 
you  and  him,  for  I  won't  believe  it,  and  it  would  be 
better  for  you  to  tell  me  honestly  from  the  beginning." 

Miriam  rose,  and  stood  leaning  one  hand  on  the 
table  and  looked  straight  at  Aunt  Pillar. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  there  is  between  us,"  she  said. 
"  It  is  what  there  will  never  be  between  me  and  any 
of  my  own  people — understanding.  Perhaps  it's  a 
dangerous  feeling;  but  I'm  glad  to  have  felt  it,  what- 
ever trouble  it  brings  to  me." 

"  There,  I  knew  it !  "  Aunt  Pillar  exclaimed.  For, 
as  she  said  when  describing  the  scene  to  Maggie 

267 


THE     LADDER 

Broadman,  "  Things  have  gone  pretty  far  when  it 
comes  to  that  silly  talk  about  understanding.  Who 
wants  to  be  '  understood,'  unless  it's  a  fool  like 
Miriam  ?  " 

Aunt  Pillar's  deep  distrust  of  her  niece's  charms  led 
her  to  ask  further : 

"  He  hasn't  made  you  a  direct  offer,  I  suppose,  from 
what  you  say?  That  talk  about  understanding  gener- 
ally means  nothing." 

"  Mr.  Herman  is  married  already,"  Miriam  an- 
swered. "  So  you  have  given  yourself  a  great  deal 
of  trouble  about  nothing." 

She  felt  as  if  she  had  come  off  victorious  in  this 
conflict  when  she  saw  her  aunt's  nonplused  expression. 
Yet,  deep  down  in  her  heart,  she  felt  that  she  had  de- 
ceived Aunt  Pillar  by  that  statement,  and  her  instinc- 
tively honest  nature  was  troubled  by  this  feeling. 

"  The  truth  is  not  always  true,"  she  told  herself. 

Aunt  Pillar,  however,  was  a  woman  of  strong  com- 
mon sense ;  she  sat  silent  only  for  a  moment  before  she 
said: 

"  If  he's  a  married  man,  as  you  say,  Miriam,  it's  only 
so  much  the  worse  for  you  to  be  carrying  on  with  him 
this  way.  Where's  his  wife  these  days  when  you  go 
traipsing  off  to  the  country  with  her  husband  ?  " 

It  was  a  perfectly  pertinent  question,  and  Miriam 
knew  that  it  was ;  but  nothing  is  more  provoking  than 
having  thus  to  confess  the  truth.  She  turned  hotly 
upon  her  aunt. 

"  I  have  heard  all  I  am  going  to  hear  about  this," 
she  said.  "  Either  you  speak  about  something  else, 
or  I  leave  the  room." 

268 


TO     THE     STARS 

Aunt  Pillar  was  not  accustomed  to  have  her  nieces 
take  the  high  tone  with  her ;  she  rose  up  in  wrath. 

"  Miriam,"  she  said,  "  you  were  always  an  intoler- 
able, set-up  piece ;  set-up  because  of  what  you  consid- 
ered your  cleverness.  But,  believe  me,  it'll  be  the  ruin 
of  you,  setting  up  your  own  wisdom  against  the  expe- 
rience of  older  people.  I'll  not  stay  here  to  be  spoken 
to  like  this.  I  meant  to  stop  for  a  cup  of  tea  with 
Cochrane ;  but  not  in  your  company  after  this !  " 

"  I'm  sorry  you  won't  stay  and  have  tea,  Aunt  Pil- 
lar, and  I'm  sure  Cochrane  will  be  sorry  too." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it ;  we  would  have  had  a  good  deal  to 
talk  over,  her  having  been  so  long  with  the  Gores,  who 
are  so  intimate  with  the  Joyce  family,  and  altogether 
I  had  several  things  to  tell  her.  But  I  won't  stay. 
Good-by,  and  I  won't  have  much  of  comfort  to  tell 
your  mother." 

Miriam  opened  the  door  and  let  her  relative  pass 
out  through  it.  She  did  not  attempt  to  part  with  her 
on  more  friendly  terms.  In  the  passage  she  heard 
Cochrane  encounter  her: 

"  What,  Mrs.  Pillar !  Surely  you  are  not  away 
without  a  cup  of  tea  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,  Cochrane ;  another  day  I'd  be  more 
than  pleased ;  but  I  must  be  off  now  my  business  with 
Miriam  is  over." 

"  I'm  really  sorry,  Mrs.  Pillar ;  where  are  you  to  be 
to-night?" 

"  At  Jenkins's  Temperance  Hotel.  You  remember 
Jenkins,  I  daresay.  You  knew  he  had  set  up  for  him- 
self in  the  Temperance  line?  I  told  him  myself  I 
thought  it  a  mistake  and  him  such  a  good  judge  of 
18  269 


THE     LADDER 

wine.  Well,  it's  there  I'm  to  be  to-night ;  it's  near 
Victoria." 

"  You'll  get  a  'bus  easy,  Mrs.  Pillar." 

"  Well,  I  daresay ;  but  I'm  not  too  sure  of  them 
'buses ;  which  will  be  the  best?  " 

"  I'll  put  on  my  bonnet  and  just  see  you  into  the 
right  one ;  quite  a  pleasure  to  me  to  do  so." 

Aunt  Pillar  subsided  on  to  one  of  the  hall  chairs, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  Miriam  watched  the  worthy 
couple  go  off  together  down  the  street. 


270 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 

THEIR  figures  had  scarcely  disappeared  round  the 
corner  when  Miriam,  standing  aimlessly  at  the  win- 
dow, saw  a  carriage  draw  up  before  the  door.  It  was 
a  little,  tight-looking  brougham.  She  had  seen  it 
before. 

Herman  got  out,  looked  up  at  the  window,  and 
catching  sight  of  her,  smiled  and  ran  up  the  steps  to 
the  door. 

Miriam  stood  paralyzed  for  a  moment. 

Would  she  send  him  away?  There  was  still  time 
to  do  so.  She  ran  to  the  door,  her  heart  beating  very 
fast,  stood  still  again,  turned  and  walked  back  to  the 
window ;  in  that  minute  of  irresolution  the  battle  was 
lost  and  Herman  came  in. 

"  I  have  found  where  you  live,"  he  began,  and  then 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  words  he  went  on : 

"  Miriam,  I  have  come ;  I  want  you — I  need  you ;  I 
cannot  live  without  you." 

She  had  given  him  both  her  hands.  He  stood  there 
holding  them  and  looking  down  at  her,  waiting  for  her 
to  speak.  A  dozen  random  thoughts  chased  each  other 
through  her  brain  as  she  stood  there  in  silence  and 
Herman  held  her  hands  in  his.  Aunt  Pillar's  flushed, 
angry  face  (it  would  be  angrier  and  more  flushed 
could  she  look  in  on  her  now)  ;  her  cousin  Timothy; 

271 


THE     LADDER 

Alan  Gore ;  one  after  the  other  she  seemed  to  see  them, 
and  then,  because,  in  spite  of  her  unorthodoxy,  she 
was  profoundly  religious  at  heart,  came  the  thought 
of  God ;  would  His  face,  too,  be  turned  against  her 
now? 

"  You  do  not  speak,"  Herman  said  at  last.  His 
voice  broke  in  upon  her  thoughts  and  compelled  her 
to  speak. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said.    "  I  do  not  know  what  to  say." 

"  I  find  in  you  something  my  heart  has  sought  for 
all  my  life  and  never  found  till  now ;  is  not  this  enough  ? 
Does  much  still  lack  ?  "  Herman  asked. 

"  Yes.  You  told  me  that  you  were  married,"  said 
Miriam. 

Herman  let  her  hands  fall  from  his,  and  sat  down  on 
the  sofa  so  lately  tenanted  by  Aunt  Pillar. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  we  will  talk  of  it  all."  Miriam 
sat  down  beside  him,  and  turned  her  large  troubled 
eyes  upon  him. 

"  If  I  could  see  it  right  myself,  I  would  not  mind 
what  other  people  thought  about  it,"  she  told  him. 
"  But  just  now  it  seems  wrong  to  me  even  to  let  you 
talk  this  way  to  me.  Do  you  think  this  foolish  of  me  ?  " 

"  But  yes ;  it  seems  to  me  the  merest  superstition ! 
This  woman  has,  indeed,  my  name,  and  by  bad  luck 
much  of  my  money ;  but  for  any  other  claim  on  me — 
no — I  married  her  in  my  foolish  boyhood,  or,  rather, 
she  married  me.  She  has  no  more  hold  on  my  heart 
than  has  this  cushion."  He  brought  down  his  hand 
on  one  of  Cochrane's  stiff  wool-work  cushions  with 
a  sharp  slap,  as  he  spoke. 

"  Did  you  not  live  with  her?  "  Miriam  asked.  Her- 
272 


TO     THE     STARS 

man  seemed  to  search  back  into  the  recesses  of  his 
memory  before  he  answered. 

"  I  have  nearly  forgotten ;  yes,  for  a  time,  but  what 
of  that?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  to  make  a  difference." 

"  Not  to  me,"  Herman  said.  "  This  living  with  her 
only  proved  to  me  how  separate  we  were  in  heart.  I 
have  said  adieu  to  her  six — seven  years  ago,  and  hope 
never  to  see  her  again.  This  is  not  to  be  married ;  this 
is  to  have  a  yoke  on  one's  neck  only,  a  thing  to 
throw  off." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  that  Miriam  had  heard 
these  doctrines.  She  had,  as  you  know,  stated  the 
whole  arguments  for  and  against  a  more  flexible  mar- 
riage law  in  the  pages  of  The  Advance  Guard;  but 
it  was  a  very  different  matter  to  be  confronted  with 
the  question  in  her  own  life. 

"  But  do  you  mean  that  you — that  you  want  to  be 
divorced  from  her  ?  "  she  hesitated. 

Herman  tossed  back  the  hair  that  fell  across  his 
eyes  with  a  gesture  of  wild  impatience. 

"  Here,  indeed,  is  the  very  mischief,"  he  said. 
"  Hasn't  she  vowed  to  me  she  will  never  divorce  me ; 
never  make  it  possible  for  me  to  take  another  wife? 
She  is  jealous  as  a  tiger." 

"  How  ugly !  "  Miriam  cried,  shrinking  back  into 
the  corner  of  the  sofa.  Herman  leaned  forward  and 
lifted  the  flaccid  little  hand  that  lay  on  the  cushion  be- 
side him. 

"  Miriam,"  he  said,  "  do  not  feel  this  way.  I  wish 
to  be  done  with  this  ugly  world  where  I  have  lived 
until  now ;  where  men  and  women  fight  for  each  other, 

273 


THE     LADDER 

and  hate  one  another.  I  wish  to  be  done  with  it  all, 
and  to  have  life  serene  and  beautiful  with  you — if  you 
will  come  to  me." 

"  But  if  I  could  not  be  your  wife,"  she  said  slowly, 
"  I  would  not  be  considered  respectable." 

Herman  laughed  aloud  at  these  words  and  the 
grave  way  in  which  they  were  spoken. 

"  Dear  child,"  he  said,  "  it  is  the  woman  herself 
who  is  respectable  or  not.  I  have  seen  so  many  a  mar- 
ried woman  to  whom  I  would  grudge  this  good  word 
'  respectable.'  I  know,  too,  women  whose  connections 
are  not  regular  but  whose  hearts  are  still  like  snow." 

"  You  have  seen  much  more  of  the  world  than  I 
have,"  Miriam  admitted.  Her  knowledge  of  those 
persons  who  had  transgressed  the  social  laws  in  the 
community  of  Hindcup  had  been  limited  to  two  in- 
stances: the  kitchenmaid  at  the  Manor,  whose  seduc- 
tion had  so  annoyed  Aunt  Pillar,  and  another  young 
woman  whose  name  had  been  solemnly  effaced  from 
the  communicants'  roll  of  the  chapel,  for  the  same 
offense. 

"  Would  I,"  she  asked  herself,  "  if  I  went  to  live 
with  Herman,  would  I  be  like  them?  " 

The  thought  made  her  hot  and  cold  all  over. 

"  I  can't  listen  to  what  you  are  saying,"  she  said 
hurriedly.  "  We  would  not  be  happy ;  people  who  do 
these  things  are  miserable " 

"  But,  Miriam,  listen  to  me ;  what  you  say  is  perhaps 
true  of  those  liaisons — these  miserable  sordid  affairs. 
But  you  I  want  so  differently.  I  want  you  for  always, 
till  death  parts  us;  till  the  soul  of  me  has  perished  I 
shall  want  you !  " 

274 


TO     THE     STARS 

He  caught  Miriam  in  his  arms  and  covered  her  with 
kisses.  The  urgency  of  his  passion  swept  away  her 
scruples  as  a  rising  flood  carries  before  it  all  the  straws 
and  sticks  that  have  gathered  in  the  side  eddies  of  a 
stream.  She  was  loved  fondly  and  dearly,  loved  and 
understood  at  last,  after  the  long  repression  and 
blighting  influences  of  her  girlhood.  The  man  who 
loved  her  thus  was  no  enigma  to  her,  as  the  young  men 
of  Hindcup  had  been ;  she  had  to  make  no  effort 
to  understand  the  workings  of  his  mind,  or  to  explain 
to  him  what  she  felt  about  anything.  Between  them 
there  was  a  perfection  of  sympathy  that  scarcely 
needed  words.  Neither  of  them  was  ordinary ;  and  in 
this  their  extraordinary  attraction  for  each  other  con- 
sisted. Just  in  proportion  as  Miriam  had  found  it 
impossible  to  get  on  with  the  average  youth  of  Hind- 
cup,  she  now  found  it  easy  to  get  on  with  Herman. 
Just  as  she  had  nothing  to  say  to  them,  she  had  every- 
thing to  say  to  him. 

"  Say  that  you  will  come  to  me,"  Herman  urged ; 
for  while  she  realized  all  this  Miriam  had  been 
silent. 

"  I  can't,"  she  said  at  last.  "  Not  yet ;  my  mind  is 
not  enough  made  up  yet." 

"  You  do  not  care  enough,"  said  he. 

"  I  must  have  time  to  think.  You  cannot  expect  me 
to  make  a  decision  like  this  all  at  once." 

Did  she  care  enough?  That  was  the  question  in 
her  mind ;  care  enough  to  throw  away  reputation  and 
the  esteem,  such  as  it  was,  of  her  own  people,  and  be- 
come an  outcast  from  them  forever.  "  I  must  wait 
and  find  out,"  she  thought. 

275 


THE     LADDER 

"  And  how  long  will  this  decision  take  you?  "  Her- 
man asked. 

"  I  do  not  know ;  I  cannot  say.  You  must  know 
how  difficult  it  is  for  me — "  Her  eyes  were  full  of  tears 
as  she  looked  at  him,  and  she  went  on :  "  It  is  so  diffi- 
cult to  distinguish.  I  am  more  than  happy  when  I  am 
with  you.  I  love  to  listen  to  every  word  you  say ; 
I  wish  to  tell  you  everything  in  my  heart ;  but  is 
this  love?  I  do  not  know.  I  must  wait  and  be 
sure." 

"  And  if  you  were  sure  ?  " 

There  was  a  long  silence  before  she  answered. 

"  If  I  were  quite  sure,  if  I  knew  that  I  had  found 
this  wonderful  thing,  I  do  not  think  that  I  would  hesi- 
tate." Herman  flung  himself  back  against  the  wool- 
work cushion  with  something  between  a  laugh  and  a 
sigh. 

"  See  you  are  quick  about  it,  little  one,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  of  my  nature  to  be  greatly  impatient.  I  shall 
write  to  you  each  week  to  know  how  the  decision 
prospers." 

"  You  must  not  be  unreasonable,"  said  Miriam 
gently.  "  For  you  know  if  it  is  your  nature  to  be 
'  greatly  impatient,'  it  is  mine  to  think  a  long  time 
about  everything.  I  have  to  see  both  sides  of  every 
question.  Just  now  I  am  inclined  only  to  see  one  side 
of  this — how  happy  I  might  be  with  you ;  but  I  know 
there  is  another,  and  I  must  look  at  it  also." 

"That  you  might  be  miserable  with  me?  You 
speak,  no  doubt,  of  this  hot  temper  of  mine,  which  is 
notorious  ?  " 

"  No,  I  never  heard  about  it.  I  only  guessed  that  it 
276 


TO     THE     STARS 

was  there  when  I  spoke  to  you  by  the  river,"  she  said, 
with  a  smile. 

"  I  was  indeed  cross.    I  have  frightened  you." 

"  I  never  thought  of  it  again.  It  has  nothing  to  do 
with  my  hesitation.  I  scarcely  think  I  should  care, 
however  cross  you  were  to  me,"  she  said. 

"  What  then  ?  You  have  heard  that  I  am  extrava- 
gant, that  I  do  not  hoard  my  money  ?  "  She  shook  her 
head  and  smiled  again. 

"  I  have  never  heard  any  stories  about  you ;  all  my 
scruples  come  from  my  own  mind.  You  must  give 
me  time." 

"  You  will  at  least  write  to  me.  I  do  not  stay  after 
this  week  in  London." 

"  No,"  she  answered  slowly.  "  I  do  not  think  that 
I  will  write  to  you.  I  wish  to  live  my  life  entirely  with- 
out you,  as  it  was  only  a  few  short  weeks  ago.  How 
short  our  knowledge  of  each  other  is,  after  all,  and 
it  seems  so  long !  " 

Herman  got  up  and  walked  to  and  fro  across  the 
little  room. 

"  Now  you  speak  like  a  fool,"  he  said.  "  So  well 
you  might  turn  back  the  hands  of  that  clock  to  twelve 
and  say  you  wished  to  think  it  noon  again !  You  can- 
not get  me  out  of  your  life  now.  I  am  in  it  forever." 

Miriam  was  silent ;  she  knew  that  what  he  said  was 
true. 

"  Go,  please,  I  want  to  be  alone,"  she  said.  But 
when  he  had  gone  the  room  felt  cold  and  dark.  She 
shivered  and  glanced  at  the  empty  grate,  not  realizing 
for  a  moment  what  it  was  that  she  missed. 

A  terrible  temptation  assailed  her:  here  she  was, 
277 


THE     LADDER 

at  war  with  her  own  people,  misjudged  and  misunder- 
stood by  them,  and  now  Herman  offered  her  love, 
understanding,  companionship — those  wonderful  gifts. 
But  then —  "  Oh,  how  bitter  it  is !  "  she  cried. 
"  Where  I  could  have  given  love  I  did  not  dare  to  en- 
tertain the  least  thought  of  it — and  now  when  love  is 
offered  to  me,  must  I  reject  it?"  Miriam  fully  realized 
at  that  moment  the  dilemma  she  had  arrived  at,  and 
confessed  it  openly  to  her  own  heart  at  last.  She 
could  never  feel  to  Herman  as  she  felt  to  Alan  Gore — 
but  yet  how  he  understood  her,  how  he  charmed  her ! 
Surely  for  companionship  such  as  his  she  would  be 
wise  to  forfeit  everything,  even  her  good  name  itself. 
And  then  he  loved  her — and  no  one  had  ever  loved 
her  before.  In  time  perhaps  she  would  forget  the  old, 
foolish  wound  and  be  happy  and  contented  with  the 
love  of  this  wonderful  man  who  was  so  unlike  every- 
one else.  .  .  .  Thus  the  Tempter  whispered  in  her  ear. 


278 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

COCHRANE  walked  back  from  Victoria  very  slowly. 
She  had  a  good  deal  to  think  about,  for  Aunt  Pillar 
had  found  it  necessary  to  pour  out  all  Miriam's  story 
to  her  old  acquaintance  on  the  way  to  the  'bus.  Coch- 
rane  had  received  the  tale,  as  she  received  most  things, 
in  silence.  She  scarcely  knew  what  to  think  of  it. 
"  But  one  thing's  certain,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and 
that  is,  the  girl  needs  a  friend." 

She  had  detected  the  hostile  ring  in  Aunt  Pillar's 
voice,  and  the  fact  that  she  seemed  anxious  to  put  the 
worst  instead  of  the  best  construction  upon  the  story. 

"  The  Pillars  always  had  a  coarse  streak  somewhere 
in  them,"  she  thought.  "  There's  a  way  and  a  way  of 
telling  a  thing.  I  remember  in  the  days  when  Jen- 
kins was  courting  me,  Mrs.  Pillar  had  a  way  of  no- 
ticing everything  that  went  against  me.  Well,  well, 
Miriam  is  a  queer  girl  to  come  from  that  stock." 

Cochrane  had  resolved  to  adhere  to  her  former  reso- 
lution and  ask  no  confidence  from  Miriam.  But  when 
she  reached  home  the  little  maidservant  Gavina  met 
her  at  the  door  in  a  state  of  huge  excitement. 

"  May  I  speak  a  minnit,  ma'am  ?  There  was  a  gen- 
tleman with  orful  eyes  up  in  the  parlor  with  Miss 
Sadler.  Came  in  a  carriage  and  kep'  it  at  the  door, 
a  real  carriage,  ma'am." 

"  Well,  Gavina,  what  of  it  ?  "  said  Cochrane  in  a 
repressive  voice.  "  Is  the  gentleman  still  upstairs  ?  " 

279 


THE     LADDER 

"  No,  ma'am ;  gone,  ma'am.  I  watched  at  the  'ead 
of  the  backstairs  all  the  time  to  make  sure." 

"  I  well  believe  it,  Gavina ;  get  away  downstairs  now 
to  your  work,"  said  Cochrane  severely.  She  would 
not  encourage  gossip  about  her  boarder.  But  this  an- 
nouncement of  Gavina's  had  brought  her  to  a  decision. 
She  must  speak  about  this  visitor.  Going  slowly  up- 
stairs, Cochrane  entered  the  parlor  and  shut  the  door. 
Miriam  was  sitting  by  the  window;  she  had  no  pre- 
tense of  employment.  Cochrane  came  and  stood  be- 
hind her  chair,  and  laid  a  kind  though  heavy  hand 
on  her  shoulder. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  your  Aunt  Pillar  has  been 
telling  me  you're  in  some  trouble  with  them  at  home, 
about  some  man ;  and  now  Gaviria  tells  me  he  has 
been  here  while  I  was  out."  She  came  and  sat  down 
beside  her,  then,  and  waited  that  she  should  reply ; 
but,  instead  of  speaking,  Miriam  suddenly  laid  her 
head  down  on  Cochrane's  hard,  uninviting-looking 
shoulder,  and  wept  bitterly. 

"  Dear,  dear !  "  said  Cochrane,  commenting,  mean- 
while, on  the  smell  of  tobacco  that  clung  to  Miriam's 
face,  "  and  very  good  tobacco ;  not  servants'  hall  stuff, 
in  the  least,"  she  said  to  herself. 

"  There,  now,  tell  me  about  it,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
when  her  sobs  had  quieted  a  little.  "  I'm  afraid  you 
and  your  aunt  had  a  few  words ;  she  seemed  put  about 
and  warm  a  little." 

It  did  not  take  long,  however,  for  Cochrane  to  dis- 
cover that  these  tears  were  not  flowing  for  Aunt  Pil- 
lar's displeasure. 

"  Now,  Miriam,"  she  said,  "  it's  happily  a  case  where 
280 


TO     THE     STARS 

there's  no  two  ways.  What  you  have  to  do  is  never 
to  see  him  again,  or  hear  from  him,  or  of  him,  or  look 
his  way.  If  he  writes  to  you,  put  the  letter  in  the  fire ; 
and  if  he  comes  to  see  you,  leave  word  you  won't  see 
him.  As  sure  as  death,  my  dear,  if  you  do  anything 
else,  you'll  get  into  trouble." 

»  But " 

"  There  now,  never  say  the  word.  There's  no  two 
ways  about  it." 

"  I  shall  never  see  another  man  like  him,"  said 
Miriam. 

"  I  daresay  not." 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  makes  a  difference  ?  He  is 
not  like  other  men,  he  can't  be  judged  by  their 
standards." 

"  I  think  right's  right,  and  wrong's  wrong ;  and  no 
good  can  ever  come  of  mixing  them." 

"  And  what  about  the  color  and  interest  of  life  ?  " 
Miriam  said,  speaking  out  her  thoughts  aloud,  for- 
getting who  her  listener  was. 

For  answer,  the  good  woman  stepped  to  the  book- 
case and  took  a  Bible  down  from  the  shelf.  She  licked 
her  thumb,  and  slowly  turned  page  after  page  in  search 
of  some  passage.  Then  she  brought  the  book  over 
to  where  Miriam  sat,  and  laid  it  on  her  knee,  pointing 
to  a  verse. 

"  Read  that,"  she  said,  and  she  slowly  repeated  the 
stern  and  terrible  words  aloud: 

"  And  if  thine  eye  offend  thee,  pluck  it  out,  and  cast 
it  from  thee:  it  is  better  for  thee  to  enter  into  life 
with  one  eye,  rather  than  having  two  eyes  to  be  cast 
into  hell  fire." 

281 


THE     LADDER 

"  That's  it,  Miriam.  I've  seen  women  go  into  hell 
in  this  world,  with  both  eyes,  because  they  were  afraid 
to  pluck  out  the  one.  See  that  you  don't  do  the  same." 

She  closed  the  Bible  and  went  quietly  out  of  the 
room,  and  Miriam  sat  looking  out  into  the  glaring 
street,  and  repeated  the  terrible  words  over  and  over 
to  herself  shuddering. 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XL 

IT  was  characteristic  of  both  of  these  women  that 
after  this  day  they  never  mentioned  Herman's  name 
again  to  each  other.  Miriam  applied  herself  more  than 
ever  to  her  work,  and  only  saw  Cochrane  at  meal  times. 
The  breathless  summer  days  passed  one  by  one;  the 
air  began  to  feel  used  up,  and  as  if  there  was  no  vital- 
ity left  in  it.  The  grass  in  the  parks  became  brown 
and  juiceless ;  the  trees  were  powdered  over  with  dust, 
and  all  the  fashionable  world,  which  makes  the  bravery 
and  show  of  London  streets,  went  out  of  town,  leaving 
only  a  shabby  million  or  two  of  poor  people  behind 
in  the  torrid  wilderness  of  stone  and  lime. 

In  this  parched-up,  weary  town,  Miriam  lived  on 
and  worked,  learning  some  of  the  unteachable  secrets 
of  her  trade.  From  writing  descriptions  of  individ- 
uals, she  advanced  to  creating  types,  an  immense  step 
in  artistic  achievement.  She  learned  also  to  forget 
Courteis  and  his  maxims,  and  to  trust  to  her  own  intu- 
ition. She  began  to  let  her  characters  take  their  own 
way,  and  followed  their  leading  blindly.  At  her  heart 
she  felt  a  stirring  which  told  her  that  these  children 
of  her  imagination  lived ;  but  could  Cochrane  be  ex- 
pected to  understand  the  interest,  the  misgiving,  or 
the  rapture,  that  by  turns  possessed  her  about  them? 
and  there  was  not  another  soul  in  London  just  then 
with  whom  Miriam  could  hold  converse.  So  she 

283 


THE     LADDER 

worked  on  without  encouragement ;  probably  the  best 
way  in  which  to  work.  She  had  few  letters  in  these 
days.  Correspondence  with  Hindcup  consisted  in  a 
biweekly  letter  from  her  mother  which  contained  very 
little  of  any  interest.  The  cousins  never  wrote,  and 
Miss  Foxe  was  a  poor  correspondent.  So  it  would 
have  been  ridiculous  of  Cochrane  to  seem  unconscious 
of  a  startling-looking  envelope  which  lay  on  the  break- 
fast table  one  September  morning,  addressed  to  Mir- 
iam. It  bore  the  name  of  a  hotel,  a  Vienna  hotel, 
printed  largely  across  it,  and  the  very  handwriting  of 
the  address  was  curious.  It  was  sealed,  too,  with 
white  sealing  wax,  and  stamped  with  a  strange  seal. 

As  it  was  impossible  to  ignore  the  letter,  Cochrane 
sensibly  decided  to  speak  about  it. 

"  That's  a  letter  you  should  burn,  my  dear,"  she 
said,  as  she  passed  it  across  the  table.  Miriam  held 
out  her  hand  for  the  letter,  blushing  hotly. 

"  There  isn't  any  fire,"  she  said,  glancing  at  the 
grate,  which  was  empty. 

"  Oh,  there's  always  the  range  downstairs.  Ga- 
vina's  making  the  beds  just  now ;  you  could  step  down 
easy  and  burn  it  in  a  minute." 

"  Oh,"  Miriam  cried,  "  I  want  to  read  it  so  much !  " 
She  had  laid  the  letter  on  the  table,  and  now  she  cov- 
ered it  with  her  hand,  as  if  to  protect  it  from  harm. 
To  her  imagination  the  envelope  felt  warm  and  sen- 
tient; it  would  have  been  cruel  to  burn  it. 

"  Take  my  advice  and  put  it  in  the  range,"  said 
Cochrane.  She  had  begun  a  pretense  of  making  tea, 
but  was  really  too  deeply  interested  in  the  fate  of 
the  letter  to  attend  to  what  she  was  doing,  so  she  set 

284 


TO     THE     STARS 

down  the  teapot  again  and  waited  to  see  what  would 
happen. 

Miriam  rose,  holding  the  letter  in  her  hand  and 
stood  irresolute  for  a  minute,  then  she  turned  and  ran 
out  of  the  room.  Down  the  dark  little  backstair  she 
ran,  across  the  kitchen,  and  without  giving  herself 
time  to  hesitate  again,  thrust  the  letter  between  the 
bars  of  the  stove.  It  caught  fire  at  one  corner  and 
fell  down  from  the  bars  on  to  the  hearth.  Miriam 
caught  it  up  and,  flaming  as  it  was,  pushed  it  back  into 
the  fire. 

"  There,  there !  it's  done !  "  she  cried  out  aloud,  rub- 
bing her  fingers,  which  were  all  scorched  at  the  tips. 

Gavina's  hurrying  step  came  down  the  stair,  and 
Miriam  turned  away  from  the  fire. 

"  I've  burned  my  fingers,  Gavina,"  she  said.  "  I 
was  burning  a  letter." 

"  Lor',  miss,  that's  bad.  'Ave  some  soap  to  it. 
Whatever  made  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  a  hurry,"  said  Miriam.  But  she  did  not 
seem  in  such  a  hurry  to  reclimb  the  kitchen  stair. 
She  came  up  it  very  slowly,  as  if  every  step  were  an 
effort,  and  sat  down  listlessly  at  the  breakfast  table; 
for  it  was  sure  to  be  such  an  eventless  meal  now! 

"  There's  a  Hindcup  letter  there  too,"  said  Coch- 
rane.  "  But  better  have  your  breakfast  first ;  the 
bacon  is  getting  cold." 

"  Yes,  Hindcup  letters  are  seldom  exciting,"  said 
Miriam,  sipping  her  tea  in  an  absent  sort  of  way. 
What  had  been  in  Herman's  letter?  she  wondered. 
Certainly  nothing  tiresome  or  ordinary — of  that  she 
was  sure  enough.  More  probably  much  that  was  in- 
19  285 


THE     LADDER 

teresting  and  unusual.  Had  it  been  a  love  letter,  such 
as  other  women  spoke  of  getting?  such  as  she  had 
never  received  in  her  life?  Surely  she  might  have  al- 
lowed herself  to  keep  it ;  perhaps  in  old  age  she  would 
regret  having  destroyed  this  evidence  that  she,  too, 
had  once  been  loved  and  desired  like  other  women. 
Then  breaking  in  upon  these  thoughts,  she  opened  her 
other  letter.  It  was  from  her  cousin  Emmie;  an  un- 
usual occurrence. 

Emmie  had  no  great  art  as  a  letter  writer,  and  her 
announcement  that  it  was  Miriam's  clear  duty  to  come 
home  at  once  was  made  without  much  circumlocution. 

"  Your  mother  has  been  ailing  for  a  long  time,  but 
none  of  us  thought  there  was  anything  seriously  the 
matter,  and  as  you  had  had  such  words  with  Mr. 
Smaile  your  mother  hesitated  to  ask  you  to  come  home, 
and  went  on  hoping  she  would  soon  be  better.  Now 
Sydney  has  been  called  in,  and  he  finds  that  she  has  a 
mortal  complaint,  and  says  you  must  come  home  at 
once  to  look  after  her.  If  you  return  and  try  to  do 
your  duty,  Miriam,  we  will  all  try  to  forget  the  past. 
We  always  were  a  family  that  thought  a  great  deal 
of  duty."  Thus  the  artless  epistle  ran. 

It  was  the  first  intimation  Miriam  had  had  of  any 
failure  in  her  mother's  health.  She  was  startled  by  the 
news,  and  more  startled  to  feel  how  sadly  little  her 
mother's  death  would  mean  to  her.  They  had  never 
been  anything  to  each  other,  and  the  remarriage  with 
Mr.  Smaile  had  alienated  them  more  and  more. 
"  How  dreadful  that  I  should  feel  so  little !  I  must  do 
everything  that  I  possibly  can  to  make  up  for  my  want 
of  love,"  she  thought.  For  she  knew  that  the  duty 

286 


TO     THE     STARS 

exacted  by  want  of  affection  is  far  more  inexorable 
than  the  joyful  service  of  love;  no  jot  or  tittle  may 
be  omitted  by  it,  till  the  whole  be  fulfilled.  Back  to 
Hindcup  she  must  go,  cost  her  what  it  might,  and  do 
her  duty  to  the  uttermost. 

"  It's  a  sudden  call,"  Cochrane  pronounced.  "  Bet- 
ter start  to-day.  You'll  never  regret  doing  the  best 
you  can."  She  noticed  the  girl's  dry  eyes,  and  drew 
her  own  conclusions. 

So  a  few  hours  saw  Miriam  off  again  to  Hindcup, 
her  life  in  London  over  for  the  present.  Just  eight 
months  since  she  had  left  home,  and  all  the  world 
different  to  her  already.  A  new  thought  in  her  heart, 
a  thought  that  would  not  be  put  by;  she  had  seemed 
till  now  to  be  helplessly  in  the  grasp  of  circumstance ; 
now  circumstance  seemed  to  be  in  her  own  hands. 
She  might  go  to  Herman  and  change  her  whole  life 
forever,  if  she  chose. 

Emmie  met  Miriam  at  the  station.  Her  manner  was 
a  curious  blend  of  curiosity  and  condolence.  Mrs. 
Smaile's  illness  was  the  only  subject  she  mentioned; 
but  an  ungovernable  curiosity  shone  from  her  every 
glance. 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Miriam ;  I  knew  it  would  be  a  great 
shock  to  you ;  but  Sydney  says  it  will  be  a  long  case. 
You'll  feel  it  very  much,  and  I  daresay  you  were  re- 
luctant to  leave  London  too;  but  I  felt  I  was  only 
doing  my  duty  as  the  doctor's  wife  when  I  wrote  you 
all  the  truth." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  Emmie,  I  am  very  glad  you  told 
me  at  once.  Mother  had  given  me  no  idea  she 
was  ill." 

287 


THE     LADDER 

"  Well,  you  and  Smaile  had  such  a  dispute,  I  sup- 
pose she  felt  it  would  be  difficult  having  you  at  home 
again." 

"  It  will  be  difficult,"  Miriam  agreed. 

"  You're  not  looking  at  all  well.  I'm  sure  you  are 
writing  too  much.  As  Sydney  said  to  me  the  other 
day :  '  I  wish,'  he  said,  '  that  she  would  be  done  with 
all  that  writing  and  get  married.'  " 

"  I  know  you  all  think  that,"  said  Miriam,  smiling 
to  hear  the  well-worn  sentence  trotted  out  once  more. 
Somehow  it  had  lost  its  sting  now,  "  Though,  after 
all,"  she  thought  to  herself  with  a  rueful  smile,  "  I'm 
less  likely  than  I  ever  was  to  get  married." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  will  have  a  very  trying  time  with 
poor  Aunt  Priscilla,"  Emmie  went  on.  "  She  is  very 
fractious.  Sydney  says  it's  the  nature  of  these  com- 
plaints, so  you  must  try  to  bear  with  her.  And  then 
old  Smaile  is  always  hanging  about.  We  don't  think 
him  very  satisfactory." 

"  That  is  no  surprise  to  me.  I'm  glad  if  you  all  have 
found  it  out  at  last." 

"  Well,  at  any  rate  it  was  your  duty  to  come,  and 
I'm  glad  you've  done  it.  Here  we  are  at  the  door. 
Sydney  will  be  up  to-morrow  morning.  Good  night, 
Miriam." 

Yes,  here  she  was,  walking  up  to  the  well-known 
door,  as  if  she  had  never  been  away  from  Hindcup. 
The  door  stood  open,  and  Miriam  walked  in  and  en- 
tered the  parlor  where  she  knew  her  mother  would 
be  sitting. 

Mrs.  Smaile  sat  by  the  fire  doing  nothing.  She  did 
not  look  very  ill.  Miriam  stooped  down  and  kissed 

288 


TO     THE     STARS 

her,  as  a  sign  that  peace  was  restored,  for  they  had 
parted  in  anger. 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  don't  look  so  ill  as  I  expected, 
mother,"  she  said,  after  the  preliminary  explanations 
and  exclamations  had  been  gone  through.  Mrs. 
Smaile  gave  a  petulant  sigh. 

"  It's  very  hard  everyone  telling  me  I  am  not  look- 
ing ill,  and  me  suffering  as  I  do,"  she  said.  She  be- 
gan then  to  pour  into  her  daughter's  ear  all  the  symp- 
toms of  her  illness — how  she  felt  this,  and  how  she 
felt  that;  how  Mrs.  Hobbes  had  a  friend  that  died  of 
the  same  not  long  ago,  and  had  felt  just  the  same ; 
how  Aunt  Pillar  had  heard  of  yet  another  sufferer 
whose  symptoms  were  identical. 

Miriam  listened  to  it  all,  realizing  mutely  what  lay 
before  her.  To  this  pitiful,  wandering,  disgusting 
chronicle  she  must  listen  uncomplainingly  till  the  end 
came.  She  wondered,  as  she  had  occasion  to  wonder 
a  hundred  times  in  days  to  come,  at  that  want  of  the 
acceptance  of  the  inevitable  which  characterized  her 
poor  mother.  Mrs.  Smaile  was  always  wondering  why 
she  must  suffer  thus;  wouldn't  it  be  possible  to  do 
anything  more  for  her  than  had  been  done?  just  as 
in  former  days  she  used  to  wonder  why  she  had  been 
given  a  queer  daughter  like  Miriam,  instead  of  an  or- 
dinary, marrying  young  woman,  and  whether  nothing 
could  be  done  to  alter  the  disposition  of  this  unlikely 
daughter  of  hers? 

When  at  last  Miriam  went  up  to  her  own  room  to 
unpack,  she  felt  the  dear  lamp  of  hope  burn  very  low 
in  her  heart.  She  took  out  the  pile  of  manuscript 
which  represented  the  work  of  the  last  six  months, 

289 


THE     LADDER 

and  looked  at  it  fondly.  But  as  she  looked,  she  de- 
spaired. How  would  it  be  possible  for  her,  here  and 
now,  to  finish  it?  She  put  it  away  in  a  drawer,  and 
came  downstairs  again. 

Mr.  Smaile  had  come  in,  and  thought  to  propitiate 
his  stepdaughter  by  offering  her  a  fatherly  salute.  She 
shrank  away  from  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  toad ;  but  he 
drew  her  to  him,  and  planted  a  hairy  kiss  on  her  brow. 

"  Welcome  home,  my  dear,"  he  said,  and  the  cordial 
words  had  an  insincere  sound  to  her.  Miriam  was 
disgusted  by  his  kiss.  She  remembered  with  a  sudden 
sense  of  contrast  the  feeling  of  Herman's  smooth 
brown  cheek  against  her  own,  and  the  remembrance 
sent  a  wave  of  color  across  her  white  face. 

Mrs.  Smaile  had  been  ordered  a  milk  diet;  but  she 
"  fancied  something  fried  " ;  so  there  ensued  the  first 
of  endless  scenes  where  Miriam  had  to  coax  her 
mother  to  eat  the  prescribed  food,  and  hear  a  dozen 
reasons  why  she  could  not  or  would  not  do  so.  At 
last,  when  her  own  meal  was  quite  cold,  she  was  al- 
lowed to  begin  to  eat  it.  But  before  she  had  eaten 
many  mouthfuls  her  mother  wished  to  be  taken  up- 
stairs to  bed.  Thus  began  Miriam's  initiation.  She 
had  entered  on  one  of  those  slow  martyrdoms  that 
women  are  called  to,  compared  with  which  the  brief 
terrors  of  the  stake  and  fagot  sometimes  seem  an  easy 
path  to  glory. 


290 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    XLI 

FOR  the  first  few  months  of  her  illness,  Mrs.  Smaile 
was  not  entirely  confined  to  her  bed ;  but  she  suffered, 
poor  woman,  from  an  incurable  restlessness  which 
made  her  undecided  as  to  whether  she  wished  to  lie 
down  or  get  up.  These  vacillations  were  always  re- 
ferred to  her  daughter  for  settlement,  but  the  advice 
she  gave  was  seldom  accepted;  for  if  Miriam  decided 
that  her  mother  should  stay  in  bed,  she  at  once  wished 
to  get  up;  or  if  the  decision  was  in  favor  of  getting 
up,  she  at  once  wished  to  stay  in  bed.  Aunt  Pillar 
came  frequently  to  see  her  sister,  and  to  offer  advice 
to  her  niece. 

"  You  should  be  firmer  with  her,"  she  would  say, 
planting  her  fat  foot  on  the  carpet,  as  if  to  illustrate 
how  her  poor  sister's  invalid  fancies  should  be  crushed 
down.  And  Miriam  at  such  times  used  to  envy  that 
callous  nature,  which  was  the  almost  priceless  posses- 
sion of  Aunt  Pillar.  It  would  have  been  no  difficulty 
to  her  to  refuse  to  comply  with  any  number  of  sick 
fancies.  Indeed,  she  would  rather  have  enjoyed  the 
process  of  denial. 

"  There's  no  good  giving  in  to  whimsies,  just  be- 
cause a  person's  on  their  deathbed,"  was  one  of  her 
aphorisms.  "  It  may  be  a  long  time  yet ;  she's  wasting 
very  slowly."  Miriam  shuddered  at  such  remarks ; 

291 


THE     LADDER 

but  Aunt  Pillar  would  have  been  much  surprised  to 
hear  that  her  words  had  been  considered  callous. 

"  Poor  mother,  I  can  do  sadly  little  for  her  after 
all,"  Miriam  would  say,  in  defense  of  her  own  sys- 
tem. She  saw  very  little  of  her  cousins  in  these  days. 
Emmie,  in  her  capacity  of  the  doctor's  wife,  came 
over  when  she  heard  from  her  husband  that  Mrs. 
Smaile  was  particularly  ill.  She  was  more  good- 
natured  than  her  sisters,  and  was  really  sorry  for  her 
cousin  just  now,  so  she  would  sometimes  offer  to  sit 
with  the  invalid  for  an  hour  while  she  went  out.  But 
on  her  return  Miriam  always  found  Emmie  very  im- 
patient to  get  away,  and  she  would  whisper  to  her : 

"  Really,  I  don't  know  how  you  stand  it,  dear ;  an 
hour  is  all  I  am  fit  for.  Sydney  doesn't  like  me  to  be 
overtired ;  he  takes  such  care  of  me.  It's  so  nice  to 
be  taken  care  of.  Well,  good  night,  and  take  care  of 
yourself,  as  you  haven't  a  husband  to  look  after  you." 

Miriam  generally  found  her  mother  considerably  the 
worse  for  Emmie's  well-meant  intentions,  so,  after  a 
few  such  experiments,  she  got  into  the  way  of  refusing 
her  cousin's  aid. 

Never  had  time  seemed  so  endless.  The  dismal 
days,  punctuated  by  nothing  but  the  fluctuations  of 
illness,  might  have  had  twenty-four  hours  instead  of 
twelve;  the  dreadful  nights,  when  pain  seemed  more 
unbearable  in  the  darkness ;  the  melancholy  dawns  that 
were  the  saddest  time  of  any.  For  with  returning 
consciousness  there  came  to  the  sufferer  a  terror  of 
all  the  pain  she  must  endure,  and  she  would  mutter, 
"  Another  day,"  with  an  intonation  that  Miriam 
could  scarcely  bear  to  listen  to;  so  about  the  time 

292 


TO     THE     STARS 

that  her  mother  generally  wakened,  she  used  to  slip 
out  of  the  room  that  she  might  not  hear  that  terrible 
whisper. 

As  Christmas  drew  near  there  were  many  consulta- 
tions among  the  cousins  as  to  how  they  were  to  observe 
the  festival.  In  deference  to  Mrs.  Smaile's  illness, 
the  usual  junketings  were  put  off ;  but  Maggie  Broad- 
man  gave  a  "  very  quiet "  dinner  to  her  relations  on 
Christmas  Day,  giving  the  invitations  in  a  voice  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  the  meal  was  to  be  eaten  in 
silence.  Miriam,  of  course,  never  thought  of  going 
to  it;  her  duties  at  home  were  far  too  arduous  to  let 
her  think  of  such  a  thing.  Mrs.  Smaile  was  now  al- 
ways in  bed,  and  suffered  intensely.  Miriam  watched 
beside  her  in  an  anguish  of  pity,  the  old  tremendous 
puzzle  that  has  at  one  time  or  another  assailed  most 
of  us  plucking  at  her  heart. 

"  How  can  God  permit  it  ?  I  wouldn't  let  a  dog 
suffer  like  this  if  I  could  help  it.  Is  God  less  tender 
than  man  ?  How  terrible !  How  cruel !  " 

In  these  long  days  she  did  "  a  deal  of  thinking," 
as  the  country  people  say. 

"  I,  too,  shall  some  day  be  lying  on  my  deathbed. 
What  shall  I  most  regret  then  ?  What  will  seem  worth 
while  ?  "  And  her  heart  always  gave  the  same  answer : 
"  To  have  missed  love  would  be  the  bitterest  thought. 
The  only  thing  that  can  seem  worth  while  then  will 
be  love." 

As  she  came  to  this  conclusion,  she  looked  at  her 
mother  and  wondered.  She  had  never  heard  her  men- 
tion her  first  husband,  Miriam's  father,  with  anything 
that  could  be  termed  more  than  tepid  affection.  It  is 

293 


THE     LADDER 

certain  that  Mr.  Smaile  had  inspired  no  deeper  feel- 
ing, while  for  herself  Miriam  knew  that  her  mother 
had  always  felt  more  anxiety  than  love.  Alas,  what 
a  shipwreck  of  life !  There  are  natures  of  this  kind 
(they  are  less  infrequent  than  is  popularly  supposed) 
who  are  incapable  of  deep  feeling  toward  anyone. 
The  great  experiences  of  life  pass  over  them,  leaving 
them  practically  the  same  as  they  were  in  extreme 
youth.  Such  a  person  had  poor  Mrs.  Smaile  been. 
She  had  married  twice,  probably  only  because  she  had 
been  asked  twice  to  marry.  She  had  borne  a  child 
and  reared  it,  yet  to  the  last  her  heart  was  empty,  and 
her  affections  undeveloped. 

Mr.  Hobbes  came  often  to  pray  by  the  sick  bed, 
and  used  generally  to  try  to  improve  the  occasion 
to  Miriam. 

"  How  little  any  earthly  thing  can  do  for  your 
mother  now,"  he  used  to  say,  and  Miriam  kept  silence, 
for  her  heart  said : 

"  How  terrible  to  leave  the  world  without  having 
made  more  of  it.  When  I  come  to  die,  I  should  like 
to  have  felt  all  that  my  heart  could  feel  of  earthly 
happiness."  Thus  by  a  strange  inversion  she  thought 
exactly  the  opposite  of  what  Mr.  Hobbes  wished  her 
to  think.  Instead  of  thinking  how  fleeting  and  worth- 
less the  things  of  earth  were,  she  thought,  "  How 
valuable  they  are!  How  terribly  worth  while!  The 
future  world  is  all  a  vast  uncertainty ;  therefore,  what 
one  should  grasp  at  are  the  best  things  of  this  world. 
Perhaps,  after  all,  the  soul  only  lives  once.  .  .  ." 

Little  did  Mr.  Hobbes  know  of  all  this  as  he  sat 
by  poor  Mrs.  Smaile's  side  one  dark  afternoon,  and 

294 


TO     THE     STARS 

repeated  to  her  the  beautiful  old  hymn  which  tells  of 
the  passage  of  the  river  of  death. 

Miriam  sat  beside  them,  her  head  bowed,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  words — those  she  had  quoted  to  Herman : 

"Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  decked  in  living  green." 

She  forgot  that  sad  death  chamber  where  she  sat,  and 
seemed  to  be  back  again  in  the  smiling  summer  mead- 
ows with  Herman.  The  young  life  in  her  heart 
bounded  up  toward  happiness,  as  a  lark  leaps  from  the 
cold  earth  to  meet  the  sun.  "  Surely,"  she  told  herself, 
"  surely  death  and  pain  and  misery  are  not  what  we 
are  made  for.  Surely  God  will  not  blame  us  if  we  seek 
the  brightness  ?  "  When  brought  into  the  near  pres- 
ence of  death,  youth  will  always  feel  this  revulsion 
from  it,  this  craving  for  life  and  happiness.  And  this 
from  no  hardness  of  heart,  or  want  of  feeling;  but 
from  a  deeply  planted  instinct  as  urgent  as  the  growth 
of  a  plant  toward  the  light. 

Can  you  blame  Miriam,  then,  when  you  hear  that 
she  did  not  leave  Herman's  next  letter  unopened? 
It  arrived  on  one  of  those  dark  days,  dark  with  a 
double  gloom.  Outside,  the  winter  sky  was  black  and 
lowering,  and  inside  the  house  there  was  that  awful 
oppression  which  broods  over  a  household  in  which 
some  one  is  drawing  near  to  death. 

It  was  a  dramatic  moment  for  the  arrival  of  a  love- 
letter,  and  as  Miriam  broke  the  seal  (unheeding 
Cochrane's  urgent  note  inclosing  the  letter,  and  ad- 
vising, "  Burn  this  one,  too,  my  dear  ")  she  seemed  to 
feel  a  breath  of  hope  and  life  and  joy.  Herman  wrote : 

295 


THE     LADDER 

It  is  now  four  months,  Miriam,  since  I  sent  to  you  a  still 
unanswered  letter.  I  have  waited  with  a  newly  acquired  pa- 
tience, which  has  now  broken  down,  and  I  write  again.  Why 
do  you  not  answer  me?  Have  you  ceased  to  think  of  me?  or  do 
you  still  look  round  and  round  this  subject  as  you  said  you  must? 

I  have  been  to  Russia,  where  I  played  before  the  Czar,  and 
have  received  from  him  a  gold  cigarette  case  of  great  grandeur. 
I  have  been  also  to  Rome,  and  from  the  King  of  Italy  have  a 
diamond  scarf-pin  which  may  some  day  be  yours,  if  you  will. 
I  have  been  to  Lisbon,  too,  and  to  Paris,  where  I  now  am.  I  do 
not  come  to  London  till  Easter.  There  I  play  for  three  weeks, 
and  then — shall  I  have  worked  hard  enough?  Shall  I  have 
earned  my  rest?  If  by  that  time  this  book  of  yours  is  finished, 
if,  too,  these  scruples  are  overcome,  we  shall  go  abroad.  I  do 
not  care  where,  so  you  are  with  me.  For  this  is  love;  with  you 
I  could  be  happy  no  matter  where  or  how,  rich  or  poor,  or 
famous  or  unknown.  Write  to  me  soon  to  tell  these  scruples 
have  faded  away. 

HERMAN. 

Miriam  read  the  letter  and  went  upstairs  to  her 
mother's  room,  carrying  it  still  in  her  hand;  but  as 
she  entered  she  slipped  the  letter  into  her  pocket,  for 
Aunt  Pillar  was  in  the  sick  room.  She  had  insisted 
on  coming  to  spend  the  night,  much  against  the  wishes 
of  her  niece. 

"  I  know  you'll  be  helpless  when  the  death  really 
occurs,  Miriam,"  she  remarked.  "  Not  that  you  have 
not  done  very  well  by  your  mother  through  her 
illness — I'll  say  that  for  you ;  but  a  death  is  different. 
I've  seen  a  good  many  in  my  day.  I  know  sister 
would  have  liked  me  to  see  to  everything.  I  daresay 
you've  never  thought  now  of  having  a  handsome 
nightdress  ready  ?  No,  I  thought  not;  well,  I  sent 

296 


TO     THE     STARS 

to  Goodhampton  yesterday  so  as  to  have  everything 
ready ;  so  you  won't  need  to  trouble." 

"  I'm  sure  it  was  very  kind  of  you,"  Miriam  said. 
She  sat  down  by  the  bedside  to  resume  her  watching, 
and  her  thoughts.  Aunt  Pillar  stood  looking  calmly 
at  her  sister. 

"  Dear  me !  poor  Priscilla,  how  she  has  gone  away, 
to  be  sure !  "  she  said,  laying  her  hand  on  the  uncon- 
scious brow  for  a  moment,  and  then  adding  in  a  whis- 
per :  "  She's  as  good  as  gone ;  just  breathing  and  no 
more." 

"  Yes,"  Miriam  said.  She  scarcely  dared  to  look 
at  her  poor  mother's  face;  the  anguish  of  weariness 
written  there  made  her  tremble.  But  the  sight  moved 
Aunt  Pillar  only  to  a  faint  compassion ;  she  was  sorry 
to  see  her  sister  dying,  to  be  sure ;  but  she  did  not  see 
in  this  deathbed  scene  a  reflection  of  countless  deaths 
as  painful.  Blessed  are  the  unimaginative,  for  un- 
doubtedly they  shall  inherit  the  earth !  After  a  brief 
survey,  then,  Aunt  Pillar  decided  what  it  was  best 
to  do. 

"  It  was  such  a  bustle  getting  away  from  the  Manor 
this  afternoon.  What  between  one  thing  and  another, 
I'm  fairly  tired  out,"  she  announced.  "  So  I'll  just 
go  and  lie  down  on  your  bed,  Miriam,  just  as  I  am, 
taking  off  my  boots ;  they're  elastic-sided  and  I  can 
draw  them  on  in  a  minute  if  you  call  me." 

"  Yes,  thank  you,  Aunt  Pillar,"  said  Miriam,  and 
with  a  sigh  of  relief  she  heard  the  door  close  behind 
her  relative ;  for  it  had  seemed  unbearable  to  her  that 
that  untender  eye  should  rest  upon  the  last  moments 
of  her  mother's  life. 

297 


THE     LADDER 

Sitting  with  her  head  bowed,  only  looking  up  now 
and  then  to  assure  herself  that  the  breath  still  came 
and  went  from  her  mother's  lips,  Miriam  watched  the 
long  night  through. 

In  the  shadow  of  Death,  Life  kept  whispering  in 
her  ear :  "  This  is  the  end  of  all  things;  to  this  we 
shall  all  come;  eat,  drink,  and  be  merry  before  the 
evil  days  come."  She  took  Herman's  letter  out  and 
held  it  in  her  hand;  it  seemed  to  bring  a  breath  of 
comfort  into  the  solemn  darkness  that  surrounded  and 
terrified  her. 

With  the  dawn  the  end  came.  Aunt  Pillar  had 
never  stirred,  and  Miriam  felt  she  must  summon  her 
now.  She  stepped  across  the  passage  into  her  own 
room. 

"  Aunt  Pillar,"  she  said,  standing  beside  her,  and 
then  a  little  louder :  "  Aunt  Pillar !  Mother  is  gone." 

The  good  lady  started  up,  flushed  with  sleep,  and  a 
little  confused. 

"  Why !  you  don't  say  so !  and  I  sleeping  so  sound. 
Give  me  my  elastic-sided  boots,  my  dear,  and  I'll  be 
with  you  immediately.  Dear,  dear !  "  Miriam  turned 
away  and  wept — not,  alas !  for  the  mother  she  had  lost ; 
but  for  that  old  "  woe  o'  the  world  "  of  which  this 
death  had  been  a  typical  instance.  On  every  side,  turn 
where  she  might,  some  misery  was  going  on:  pain, 
terrible  and  unrelenting ;  mental  anguish,  crueler  still ; 
and  death,  awful  and  omnipotent,  the  end  of  all  flesh. 


298 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XLII 

AFTER  her  mother's  death  Miriam  went  to  stay  with 
her  cousin  Emmie  for  a  few  weeks.  Emmie  was  the 
only  one  of  the  cousins  she  could  get  on  with  at  all ; 
and,  though  they  had  little  in  common,  her  easy  good- 
nature counted  for  a  good  deal. 

Emmie  made  a  duty  of  feeding  Miriam  on  strong 
soups  and  urging  her  to  rest  in  the  afternoons,  and 
all  the  time  she  was  watching  her  closely  and  drawing 
her  own  conclusions. 

"  There's  more  wrong  with  her  than  '  run  down- 
ness,'  Sydney,"  she  told  her  husband.  "  She  has  some- 
thing on  her  mind ;  I  know  how  it  was  with  me  just 
before  we  got  engaged.  I  wasn't  entirely  sure  if  you 
meant  to  propose,  and  I  worried  myself  quite  thin. 
I'm  sure  you  remember  ?  I  do ;  one  night  at  the  Bad- 
minton Club  you  said :  '  Why,  Miss  Emmie,  your 
shadow  does  grow  less  nowadays ! '  and  I  thought  it 
such  a  poetical  way  of  expressing  that  I  was  losing 
flesh ;  I  suppose  it  was  your  own  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  Emmie ;  I  think  some  one  else  said  it ; 
probably  Shakespeare." 

"  Well,  never  mind ;  it's  quite  as  clever  to  know 
Shakespeare  as  to  say  things  out  of  one's  own  head ; 
anyway,  that  was  what  happened  to  me,  I  got  thin, 
and  Miriam  is  getting  thin,  too,  and  it's  about  that 
man,  I'm  sure." 

299 


THE     LADDER 

"  Remember  the  girl  has  just  nursed  her  mother 
through  a  long  and  painful  illness,"  said  Dr.  Pratt, 
who,  not  being  a  Pillar,  was  able  to  see  some  other 
reason  than  a  love  affair  for  the  girl's  worn-out  ap- 
pearance. 

"  No,  no !  men  are  stupid ;  yes,  even  you,  Sydney, 
dear.  I  know  it's  that  she  is  in  love ;  you  may  say 
what  you  like,"  Emmie  persisted. 

She  tried  in  a  good-natured,  clumsy  way  to  gain  her 
cousin's  confidence,  but  all  in  vain.  Miriam  never  al- 
lowed Herman's  name  to  cross  her  lips. 

By  her  mother's  will,  Miriam,  rather  to  her  own 
surprise,  found  herself  independent ;  that  is  to  say, 
she  had  a  small  yearly  income  which  would  be  quite 
sufficient  for  all  her  wants,  and  a  little  margin  over. 

"  Of  course  you  will  just  settle  down  sensibly  in 
Hindcup  beside  us  all,"  Emmie  said.  But  Miriam 
had  no  idea  of  doing  anything  of  the  kind.  As  soon 
as  her  affairs  were  settled  she  intended  to  return  to 
London,  and  then  ?  Ah,  that  was  the  question  of  ques- 
tions which  was  never  long  absent  from  her  mind. 
She  had  not  answered  Herman's  letter;  she  did  not 
mean  to  do  so.  "  I  shall  wait  and  speak  to  him,"  she 
thought. 

Easter  was  early  that  year,  and  after  Easter  Herman 
was  to  be  in  England.  Miriam  decided  to  go  back  to 
her  old  quarters  at  Cochrane's  about  that  time.  In 
the  meanwhile  she  was  more  of  a  puzzle  than  ever  to 
her  cousins.  They  acknowledged  that  she  was  gentler, 
easier  to  live  with  than  of  yore,  but  more  secretive, 
even  less  possible  to  understand  than  she  used  to  be. 

"  Well,  you're  your  own  mistress  now,  and  none  of 
300 


TO     THE     STARS 

us  can  say  a  word  to  you,"  Aunt  Pillar  said,  when  Mir- 
iam told  her  she  was  going  to  London ;  but  her  tone 
expressed  grave  disapproval  of  the  decision.  Had 
she  known  all  that  was  passing  in  her  niece's  mind, 
she  would  have  looked  graver  still. 

"Would  it  be  doing  wrong?"  Miriam  asked  her- 
self a  dozen  times  a  day.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  to 
throw  away  youth  and  love  for  so-called  '  principle,' 
is  like  the  old  fable  of  the  dog  with  the  bone  and 
the  reflection.  Let  me  keep  hold  of  what  I'm  sure  of. 
If  I  give  Herman  up,  my  life  will  moulder  on  for 
valueless  years,  and  then  I  shall  die.  If  I  go  to  him, 
I  may  be  miserable,  I  may  repent  it,  but  I  shall  have 
had  my  moments  of  joy.  Surely,  even  God  would 
forgive  me.  He  remembereth  that  we  are  but  dust !  " 

Herman's  easy  creed  recurred  to  her — more  attrac- 
tive, more  workable  for  poor  human  nature,  it  seemed 
to  her,  than  the  old  inexorable  doctrine  of  right  and 
wrong !  So,  pondering  these  things  in  her  heart,  Mir- 
iam returned  to  London;  and  as  she  drove  from  the 
station  she  saw  big-lettered  bills  on  the  hoardings: 

HERMAN 

ON  THE  I4TH  INST. 

AT  3  O'CLOCK. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  escape  his  name. 

Each  day  the  date  of  his  coming  to  London  drew 
nearer.  Miriam  marked  the  passing  of  each  day,  till 
at  last  she  said  to  herself,  "  He  is  here  to-night,"  and 
the  thought  made  her  tremble.  She  knew  that  he 
could  always  find  out  her  address  from  Max  Courteis, 
20  301 


THE     LADDER 

and  she  expected  that  it  would  not  be  long  till 
she  heard  from  him.  Cochrane  was  out  when  the 
eventful  letter  came,  and  Miriam  could  open  it  un- 
observed. 

"  When  can  I  see  you  ?  "  Herman  wrote.  "  Say 
where  you  are,  and  which  hour  to  come,  and  I  shall 
come."  She  sat  holding  the  letter  in  her  hand  and 
gazing  at  it,  lost  in  thought.  What  was  she  going 
to  do?  She  could  not  ask  him  to  come  and  see  her 
here,  when  Cochrane  felt  as  she  did  about  him. 
Equally  she  shrank  from  going  to  see  him  by  herself, 
and  yet  she  thought : 

"  Why  should  I  shrink  from  doing  this,  when  per- 
haps I  am  going  to  consent  to  live  with  him  ?  I  need 
not  be  so  particular  about  proprieties." 

Having  come  to  this  conclusion,  she  wrote,  telling 
him  that  she  would  come  to  see  him  the  next  after- 
noon. Miriam  thought  she  had  realized  what  this 
meant ;  but  when  she  found  herself  at  the  door  of  the 
hotel,  her  courage  suddenly  failed.  How  extraor- 
dinary it  seemed  that  she  should  come  there  alone 
to  call  upon  Herman!  The  hall  porter  and  the  man 
in  the  lift  looked  curiously  at  her,  she  thought,  as  she 
uttered  his  name. 

"  I'll  just  see  if  Mr.  Herman  is  in,"  the  man  said, 
preceding  her  along  the  passage.  Miriam  knew  with- 
out being  told  that  he  was,  for  she  heard  the  sound  of 
his  violin  in  the  distance.  The  playing  broke  off  as 
the  man  tapped  at  the  door,  and  she  heard  Herman 
answer  impatiently : 

"  At  home  ?  Not  to  the  King  himself  just  now. 
No,  no,  no,  no,  no !  I  will  have  none  of  them  to-day !  " 

302 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  It's  a  lady,  sir,"  the  man  insisted. 

"  Not  Miriam  ?  "  Herman  exclaimed.  He  pushed 
past  the  man,  and  ignoring  his  presence,  came  forward, 
holding  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"  He  says  'a  visitor';  how  am  I  to  know?  Come, 
Miriam,  come  in,"  he  said,  leading  her  into  the  room 
and  closing  the  door. 

"  This  is  how  it  is  with  me  to-day,"  he  went  on,  sit- 
ting down  sideways  on  a  chair,  and  giving  an  impa- 
tient backward  toss  to  the  hair  which  fell  across  his 
eyes.  "  This  is  how  it  is,  Miriam.  I  wake  at  dawn  with 
the  divinest  of  tunes  in  my  brain  (you  have  no  doubt 
experienced  these  dream  inspirations?) — 'Aha,  Her- 
man, at  last  you  have  heard  this  tune  you  have  waited 
for  so  long ! '  I  thought.  And  then  I  essay  to  play  the 
tune,  and  where  is  it?  Gone,  vanished,  singing  some- 
where ahead  of  me ;  so  far  ahead  that  I  only  catch  an 
echo  now  and  then.  All  this  day  I  have  labored  to 
catch  it,  and  now  it  is  farther  off  than  ever.  Tell  me, 
have  you,  too,  felt  this  ?  "  He  passed  his  hand  across 
his  eyes  with  a  weary  gesture. 

Miriam  smiled. 

"  I  have  awakened  with  the  most  divine  verses  in 
my  head,  and  when  I  tried  to  write  them  down,  they 
were  gone.  I  know  how  it  feels — so  cruelly  disappoint- 
ing." It  was  characteristic  of  both  of  them  that  they 
should  sit  down  to  talk  in  this  way,  when  they  had 
met  really  to  make  the  most  passionate  decision  of 
their  lives.  Neither  of  them  felt  any  incongruity  in 
it;  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  to  do.  Miriam 
spoke  again. 

"  I  fancy,"  she  said,  speaking  very  gently,  "  that 
303 


THE     LADDER 

you  have  labored  too  much."  Herman  lifted  his  violin 
and  played  a  few  notes  on  it. 

"  It  went  something-  like  this,"  he  said  fretfully. 
"  So  far  I  go,  and  no  farther.  But,  mon  Dieu!  how 
tired  I  am !  "  He  laid  down  the  violin  again  and 
turned  to  her  much  as  a  weary  child  might  have  done. 

"  Can't  you  rest  me  ?  Can't  you  help  me  ?  "  he 
asked.  All  the  woman  in  her  stirred  in  answer  to  his 
appeal.  She  took  his  hand  in  hers  and  stroked  it 
gently.  "  Often,"  she  told  him,  "  when  one  leaves  off 
thinking  and  puzzling  over  a  thing  it  comes  right  of 
itself,  because  one's  mind  has  been  given  a  rest.  It's 
like  trying  to  catch  a  timid  creature — the  best  way  is 
to  pretend  you  are  never  thinking  of  catching  it." 

"  We'll  pretend,  then,"  said  Herman.  He  took  his 
violin  and  laid  it  carefully  away  in  its  case.  When  this 
was  done,  the  cloud  had  passed  away  from  his  face, 
and  he  looked  another  man. 

"  She  always  gives  good  advice,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Perhaps  to  other  people." 

"  I  see,  I  see ;  my  battle  is  won !  "  Herman  cried 
delightedly.  "  You  have  come  to  tell  me  that  all  is 
well?  And  see  how  you  will  help  me,  will  comfort 
me !  Half  an  hour  ago  I  was  beside  myself.  You 
come  in  and  put  all  to  right.  There  are  those,  Miriam, 
who  are  meant  for  each  other,  if  the  very  stars  fight 
against  them." 

Miriam  rose  and  held  out  both  her  hands  to  him, 
and  standing  there  she  looked  straight  into  his  eyes — 
black,  and  lit  up  as  if  a  fire  burned  behind  them. 

"  O  Herman !  "  she  cried,  calling  him  quite  uncon- 
sciously by  the  name  the  world  called  him  by,  "  if  I 

304 


TO     THE     STARS 

were  to  do  this  for  you,  would  you  indeed  be  true  to 
me  forever  and  ever  ?  " 

Her  voice  quivered,  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"  Of  what  use  are  vows,  Miriam,  made  just  to  be 
broken  ?  Vows  will  make  no  man  true.  It  is  from  the 
heart  fidelity  comes,  not  from  the  lips.  Do  not  ask 
me  for  vows !  I  cannot  give  them.  This  is  the  best 
I  can  give  you."  He  bent  down  and  kissed  her  trem- 
bling lips  as  he  spoke.  Miriam  was  silent,  and  he 
went  on : 

"  Where  shall  we  live,  my  heart  ?  I  shall  give  you 
a  villa  in  Italy,  or  a  castle  on  the  Rhine,  why,  or  a 
chateau  en  Espagne,  if  that  is  your  pleasure!  You 
shall  choose." 

Miriam  shook  her  head. 

"  I  should  not  want  any  of  these  fine  things.  A 
very  small  house,  where  I  could  live  very  quietly  with 
you,  would  be  all  I  wanted,"  she  said. 

Herman  laughed  his  gentle,  sweet-sounding  laugh. 

"  Very  bourgeois,  indeed,  Miriam,"  he  said,  "  would 
be  this  little  house  with,  I  suppose,  two  old  maidserv- 
ants, and  a  little  carriage  with  fat  horses  and  a  fat 
coachman?  and  I  to  come  in  and  eat  with  you  roast 
mutton  and  this  atrocious  milk  pudding  which  your 
English  doctors  delight  to  order  me?  This  will  be  a 
bourgeois  paradise,  indeed !  " 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  laugh  ?  "  she  cried.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  Herman  thought  of  all  her  hesitation  as 
merely  a  joke.  He  did  not,  for  once,  seem  to  be  able 
to  understand  what  she  felt.  She  sat  in  miserable 
silence  for  a  minute,  and  then  suddenly  hid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder  and  wept. 

305 


THE     LADDER 

"  I  seem  to  be  throwing  away  my  whole  life,"  she 
sobbed.  "  I  might  have  been  so  happy  with  you,  but 
I  can't  do  it,  I  can't." 

"  This  respectability,  the  god  of  the  Englishwom- 
an !  "  Herman  exclaimed.  "  This  is  what  hinders  you, 
for  this  you  will  throw  away  our  happiness !  "  He  put 
his  arm  round  Miriam,  half-angry  with  her,  wholly 
tender,  and  kissed  her  tear-stained  face.  And  as  she 
leaned  her  head  upon  his  breast  and  felt  the  sweetness 
of  his  kisses,  it  seemed  impossible  to  Miriam  that  she 
could  renounce  his  love.  Was  she  not  a  fool  for  her 
pains?  Was  not  happiness,  at  whatever  cost  it  might 
be  purchased,  indeed  the  "  inalienable  right  of  hu- 
manity "  ? 

But  as  she  felt  all  this,  she  also  felt  suddenly  and 
unmistakably  that  nothing  could  make  her  do  this 
thing.  She  might  argue  round  and  round  the  point 
in  her  own  mind ;  but  she  could  never  get  past  the 
fact  of  right  and  wrong.  It  had  seemed  as  if  she 
might;  now  she  found  it  was  impossible.  That  im- 
mense force  which  lurks  in  every  one  of  us,  alternately 
making  or  marring,  saving  or  damning  us — the  force 
of  inherited  tendencies — rose  up  in  Miriam  and  clutch- 
ed her  from  the  tide  of  circumstance  like  a  strong  hand 
catching  hold  of  a  spent  swimmer.  She  had  thought 
herself  different,  in  every  imagination  of  her  heart, 
from  her  own  people — those  dull,  respectable,  law- 
abiding,  unimaginative  natives  of  Hindcup ;  but  she 
was  not.  The  past  is  too  strong  for  us,  and  holds 
us  in  a  firmer  grasp  than  we  know.  At  every  crisis  in 
life  this  determining  factor  is  beside  us,  urging  us 
in  one  direction  or  another,  so  that  we  are  never  really 

306 


TO     THE     STARS 

left  to  make  our  decisions  quite  unaided,  or,  as  the 
case  may  be,  unhindered.  In  Miriam's  case  the  bal- 
ance that  had  trembled  so  long,  fell  to  the  side  of 
morality,  weighted  by  this  force  she  did  not  even  name 
to  herself. 

"  I  cannot  do  it,"  she  said.  "  I  must  say  good-by ; 
my  mind  is  quite,  quite  made  up  at  last." 

But  when  she  went  out  again,  it  was  into  such  an 
empty  world. 

"  Alan  Gore  is  going  to  be  married ;  and  I  have  said 
good-by  to  Herman  forever ;  and  nothing  interesting 
or  remarkable  remains  for  me  in  the  whole  world," 
she  told  herself. 


307 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XLIII 

ONE  day,  not  very  long  after  this,  Miriam  went 
down  to  the  city  to  see  Max  Courteis  at  his  office. 
He  was  always  glad  to  see  her,  and  always  received 
her  with  the  same  question: 

"  Well,  your  book  done  yet  ?  "  and  got  the  invariable 
reply  that  it  was  not.  This  afternoon  he  seemed  even 
more  interested  than  usual  in  Miriam.  He  looked  at 
her,  quite  closely  for  him,  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  you  on  business,  Mr.  Courteis," 
she  said.  "  I  want  your  help.  I  want  you  to  give  me 
some  work — anything.  I  don't  very  much  mind  what 
it  is,  but  something  that  has  got  to  be  done  every  day 
without  fail." 

"  Why  do  you  want  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because  I  don't  seem  able  to  do  my  own  kind  of 
work  just  now,  and  I  want  the  other." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"  A  great  waste  of  your  abilities  to  do  drudgery," 
said  Courteis,  taking  up  a  paper  knife  and  beginning 
to  slash  open  the  leaves  of  a  magazine  while  he  spoke. 

"  They  are  not  being  used  in  any  better  way,"  said 
Miriam.  "  I  can't  work  just  now." 

Courteis  slashed  away  at  the  magazine,  then  sud- 
denly held  it  out  toward  her. 

"  Very  like  him ;  very  good,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  looked  down  at  the  page.  There  was  a  por- 
308 


TO     THE     STARS 

trait  of  Herman  on  it,  so  lifelike  that  she  started  as 
she  saw  it. 

"  Oh,  don't ! "  she  cried,  as  if  something  hurt  her. 
She  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hand.  Courteis  smiled 
and  laid  the  magazine  aside. 

"  You've  quarreled  with  him,  I  see — and  hear ;  I 
saw  him  yesterday." 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  Miriam  almost  inaudibly. 

"  He's  ill,  you  know.  He  has  given  up  all  his  en- 
gagements and  is  going  to  Paris  whenever  he  is  able 
for  the  journey.  You  knew  this?  " 

"  No." 

Courteis  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
the  opposite  wall  with  a  dreamy  stare. 

"  It's  a  tremendous  responsibility  to  upset  a  tem- 
perament like  his,"  he  said.  "  Have  you  weighed  the 
subject  properly  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  Miriam. 
"  Do  you  think  it's  a  subject  I  would  be  likely  to  dis- 
miss without  much  thought  ?  " 

"  He  doesn't  bear  to  be  thwarted,"  Courteis  went 
on,  without  heeding  her  question.  "  And,  after  all, 
why  should  he  be  ?  "  He  paused  and  looked  at  her 
again  curiously. 

"  God  thwarts  us,"  said  Miriam,  shortly  and  bitterly. 
She  felt  just  then  ungrateful  for  the  conscience  that 
seemed  to  have  ruined  her  life.  Courteis  was  silent 
again  for  a  minute  or  two. 

"  Well,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said  at  last,  "  you  know 
my  views  of  life  by  this  time.  I've  a  tremendous  re- 
spect for  genius;  it's  the  lever  of  the  world.  Let  it 
have  its  way,  I  say.  If  I  were  a  woman,  I  would  be 

309 


THE     LADDER 

honored  to  sacrifice  my  good  name  for  Herman.  But 
you  don't  see  it  that  way,  and  you've  got  genius  your- 
self, so  you  must  take  your  own  bent,  too,  and  trust 
yourself.  Perhaps  you're  right." 

"  Genius  has  nothing  to  do  with  this  question ;  it's 
a  clear  case  of  right  and  wrong,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Yours,  that  is  to  say,  is  the  moral  temperament ; 
Herman's  is  not ;  that's  all,"  said  Courteis.  "  It's  a  sad 
pity  they  crossed.  If  your  genius  is  going  to  be  hin- 
dered by  him,  you  were  right  to  be  done  with  him. 
He  said  his  would  have  been  helpful  to  you ;  but  that's 
another  question.  Well,  why  do  you  want  this  work 
you  speak  of  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  miserable,"  she  said  bluntly.  She 
hated  to  sit  there  in  broad  daylight,  discussing  the 
deepest  feelings  of  her  heart  with  this  man,  as  she 
might  have  discussed  the  symptoms  of  illness  with  a 
physician.  Yet  Courteis  seemed  to  have  been  so  in- 
strumental in  shaping  her  life,  that  she  could  not  re- 
fuse him  her  confidence  now;  but  for  him  she  would 
never  have  met  Herman. 

"  You  think  work  like  this  will  help  you  ?  "  Courteis 
pursued. 

"  It  might,"  she  answered. 

"  Perhaps  it  will,"  Courteis  admitted.  "  It  may — 
but  I'll  tell  you  one  thing ;  try  as  you  will,  you'll  never 
be  able  to  forget  Herman,  if  that's  what  you  want  to 
do."  He  rose  and  walked  across  to  his  desk,  searched 
among  his  papers,  and  lifted  a  pile  of  letters. 

"  Look  at  that,"  he  said.  "  Look  at  that  for  a  cor- 
respondence! It  grows  and  grows,  yet  few  paid  per- 
sons would  be  clever  enough  to  help  me  with  it ;  help 

310 


TO     THE     STARS 

me,  mind — without  always  referring  to  me  to  do  the 
thinking.  I'll  let  you  try  if  you  can.  If  you  make 
any  fatal  blunders,  you'll  have  to  give  up  the  job. 
Perhaps  you  may  prove  better  at  this  sort  of  thing 
than  I  am  myself.  Do  you  think  you  know  good 
stuff  when  you  see  it?  If  you  do,  I'll  have  to  pay 
you  well,  I  suppose ;  but  you  won't  expect  anything 
till  I  see  what  you  are  worth?  When  will  you 
begin?" 

"  To-morrow,  if  you  like,  Mr.  Courteis." 
"  Very  well,  to-morrow  at  ten  o'clock."  Miriam 
rose  and  held  out  her  hand  to  say  good-by,  and  hesi- 
tated for  a  moment,  as  if  she  wished  to  say  something. 
"  Well  ?  "  Courteis  said.  "  Anything  else  ?  " 
"  Yes ;  one  other  thing.  Mr.  Courteis,  might  I  ask 
you  never  to  speak  to  me  about  Francis  Herman 
again  ?  It — it  hurts  me,"  she  said.  She  turned  away 
quickly  as  she  spoke,  and  did  not  wait  for  his  answer. 
The  next  morning  Miriam  began  her  work.  She 
very  soon  saw  that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  interest 
to  be  got  out  of  it.  For  when  she  found  something 
really  good  among  the  "  unsolicited  contributions,"  her 
joy  was  immense ;  while  a  sorrowful  interest  attached 
to  even  the  most  piteous  attempts  at  composition.  It 
was  her  snare  at  first  to  look  at  every  manuscript  in 
too  personal  a  light.  She  seemed  to  see  the  contribu- 
tor before  the  contribution,  and  was  harrowed  by  the 
thought  of  the  disappointment  that  was  in  store  for 
so  many  of  these  would-be  authors.  She  longed  to 
find  something  good  to  say  for  the  worst  of  them. 
But  from  this  overkindliness  her  taste  and  judgment 
held  her  back.  She  could  not  commend  bad,  any  more 


THE     LADDER 

than  she  could  ignore  good,  work.  Courteis  began 
to  find  that  he  had  an  ally  in  Miriam,  one  on  whose 
judgment  he  could  depend.  The  book-taster,  like  the 
collector  of  pictures,  is  born,  not  made. 

"  Where  d'you  get  it  ?  "  he  would  say,  rubbing  his 
hands  together  delightedly.  "  Where  d'you  get  it  ? 
When  I  remember  you  two — or  three  is  it  ? — years  ago 
at  that  fete  at  Hindcup,  what  a  raw  young  thing  you 
were,  to  be  sure!  Didn't  know  Shakespeare  from 
Smollett — and  here  you  are,  as  good  a  judge  of  style 
as  I  am  myself;  and  that's  saying  a  good  deal.  It's 
the  old  story,  it  can't  be  taught;  no,  nor  caught,  nor 
bought,  either.  It's  in  the  blood;  a  germ  that  grows 
and  fulfills  itself  like  any  other." 

Miriam  would  laugh  and  shake  her  head. 

"  You  forget  that  I  have  been  working  hard  all 
these  years,  Mr.  Courteis.  Reading  enough  (accord- 
ing to  your  theories)  to  make  me  dull  for  the  rest  of 
life,  and  learning  by  the  faults  in  my  own  writing  to 
notice  the  faults  of  other  people — and  their  virtues 
too." 

Miriam's  connection  with  The  Advance  Guard  in- 
evitably made  her  more  intimate  with  both  Max  Cour- 
teis and  his  wife.  She  went  every  Thursday  evening 
to  their  house  and  helped  them  to  receive  the  motley 
assemblage  of  guests  that  appeared  there  weekly. 
Miriam  confessed  to  a  weakness  for  aspirants,  though 
she  told  Courteis  she  had  never  discovered  one  as 
aspiring  as  she  used  to  be  herself.  The  greater  lights 
of  literature  she  stood  in  awe  of;  but  it  was  a  joy 
to  her  to  be  in  the  same  room  with  them.  Mrs.  Cour- 
teis in  her  flabby  way  grew  fond  of  the  girl,  and  wel- 

312 


TO     THE     STARS 

corned  her  to  the  house.     She  generally  found  some 
domestic  difficulty  to  lay  before  her. 

"  The  lamps  won't  burn  to-night,  Miriam ;  what  can 
be  the  matter  with  them?  And  Mr.  Courteis  was 
quite  cross  last  week  because  the  tea  and  coffee  were 
mixed  somehow  in  the  pouring  out.  Will  you  try 
to  keep  them  from  getting  mixed  to-night  ?  " 

Miriam,  who  had  been  considered  so  unpractical 
and  undomestic  by  her  cousins,  generally  found  a  rem- 
edy for  these  minor  evils.  One  autumn  evening  when 
she  arrived,  the  house  seemed  dingier  than  usual.  All 
the  lamps  were  burning  badly,  and  smelling  of  paraf- 
fin, a  state  of  matters  which  Mrs.  Courteis  exclaimed 
at,  but  was  powerless  to  remedy. 

"  Ah,  here  you  are,  Miriam ;  do  show  Bertha  about 
these  lamps!  I  expect  quite  a  number  of  people  to- 
night," the  good  lady  said,  drifting  about  the  room, 
sniffing  the  paraffin-laden  air,  and  catching  the  lace 
of  her  floppy  gown  on  the  backs  of  the  chairs  as  she 
moved  about.  Miriam  removed  the  lamps  one  by  one 
to  be  refilled,  opened  the  windows,  and  sat  down  to 
await  the  coming  of  the  guests.  Max  Courteis  came 
sauntering  in.  "  Your  friend,  Alan  Gore,  is  coming 
this  evening,  Miss  Sadler,"  he  said.  "  I  met  him  in 
town  and  asked  him  to  come.  Have  you  seen  him 
lately?" 

"  No,  not  for  more  than  a  year,"  she  said.  "  His 
sister  is  abroad,  and  I  never  see  him  when  she  is  not 
here." 

"  Ah,  well,  you'll  see  him  to-night.  It  seemed  to  me 
there  was  something  wrong  with  him ;  he  looked 
changed  a  little  since  I  last  saw  him." 

313 


THE     LADDER 

"  He  is  going  to  be  married,"  Miriam  said,  quite 
without  cynical  intention.  But  Courteis  laughed,  of 
course,  at  the  threadbare  joke  against  matrimony. 

A  little  later  in  the  evening  Gore  arrived.  He  came 
up  to  where  Miriam  stood,  and  even  before  she  had 
spoken  to  him,  she  noticed  the  change  that  Courteis 
had  alluded  to.  He  looked  very  much  older  and 
graver. 

"  Why,  Miss  Sadler,  I  have  not  seen  you  for  a  long 
time ;  and  I  hear  you  have  become  Mr.  Courteis's  right 
hand,  and  are  a  very  important  person,  indeed ! "  he 
said,  as  they  shook  hands.  He  was  noticing  the  change 
wrought  in  Miriam  by  the  last  year,  just  as  she  was 
noticing  his  changed  appearance ;  and  he  was  won- 
dering, like  her,  what  had  caused  the  change. 

Now  that  she  had  more  money  at  her  command, 
Miriam  dressed  quite  differently,  which  was  partly  the 
reason  why  she  looked  different.  But  her  whole  ex- 
pression had  altered,  intensified,  fined  down.  And  her 
manner  had  gained  a  pleasant  composure  that  it  used 
to  want. 

"  I  have  not  reached  the  stars  yet,"  she  said,  smil- 
ing. "  And  I  think  I  begin  to  believe  you  now,  that 
they  are  never  reached." 

As  she  stood  there  beside  him,  Miriam  felt,  as  she 
had  always  done,  from  the  first  day  they  met  years 
before  in  Aunt  Pillar's  parlor,  a  childish  desire  to  lay 
all  her  life  before  him,  to  tell  him  everything  in  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  through  such  trouble,  such  per- 
plexity since  I  saw  you  last,"  she  said,  yielding  to  the 
childish  impulse  for  a  moment. 

3H 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Yes,  I  heard ;  I  heard  that  your  mother  died.  Was 
it  your  affairs,  your  money  matters  that  were  the  per- 
plexity ? "  he  asked. 

"  No ;  oh,  no ;  money  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  But 
I  can't  tell  you  what  it  was,  not  here,  in  this  crowded 
room,  with  people  talking  all  round.  Tell  me  about 
Delia,  Mr.  Gore — what  she  is  doing,  and  where 
she  is." 

Their  talk  drifted  off  on  to  less  personal  topics,  but 
all  the  time  Miriam  kept  wondering  what  was  the 
matter  with  Alan  Gore.  She  found  out  quite  by  ac- 
cident what  it  was. 

"  I  have  scarcely  seen  Delia  since  that  ball  at  the 
Manor  a  year  and  a  half  ago,"  Miriam  said.  "  I  saw 
her  just  for  a  few  minutes  then,  and  you  and  Miss 
Hastings — "  She  stopped  suddenly.  Instinctively 
she  felt  that  she  should  not  have  mentioned  Sophia 
Hastings.  There  was  an  awkward  little  silence  for  a 
moment. 

"  Did  you  know  that  I  was  not  going  to  be  mar- 
ried ?  "  Gore  said.  He  looked  down  at  the  ground  as 
he  spoke.  Miriam  drew  a  long  breath  of  surprise. 

"  Is  that  what  is  the  matter  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes ;  I  thought  you  would  have  heard.  Shall  we 
talk  about  something  else  ?  "  said  Gore  quickly.  And 
Miriam  began  in  a  great  hurry  to  tell  him  about  her 
work. 


315 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XLIV 

MIRIAM'S  book  had  never  been  finished  yet ;  all  this 
daily  work  for  Courteis  had  taken  up  both  her  time 
and  her  thoughts ;  but  quite  suddenly  one  day  the  im- 
pulse to  finish  the  book  came  over  her.  She  jumped 
up  and  pulled  out  from  its  resting  place  the  long  dis- 
carded manuscript,  ran  to  the  table  and  found  a  pen- 
cil, looked  for  a  knife  to  mend  the  point  with,  and 
failing  to  find  one,  sat  down  and  began  to  write  rap- 
idly with  a  very  bad  point  indeed. 

Where  the  impulse  came  from,  she  could  not  have 
said,  but  there  it  was.  She  found  it  difficult  to  write  the 
sentences  quickly  enough ;  it  was  as  if  some  one  stood 
beside  her  dictating  into  her  ear.  Everything  was 
easy,  the  right  words  came  unsought,  and  the  ideas 
jostled  each  other  in  her  brain. 

"  That's  right ;  that  is  what  I  have  wanted  to  express 
for  so  long ;  how  did  I  not  do  it  before  ?  "  she  thought 
as  she  wrote  on.  Cochrane  came  and  told  her  that  it 
was  time  she  started  for  her  work  in  the  city,  but 
Miriam  never  looked  up. 

"  I'm  not  going,"  she  said  curtly.  She  could  not 
bear  to  stop;  the  work  must  just  be  allowed  to  take 
care  of  itself,  and  Miriam  admitted  that  Courteis 
would  be  the  last  person  to  blame  her  for  this  decision. 

Dinner  had  been  on  the  table  for  half  an  hour  before 
316 


TO     THE     STARS 

she  came  down,  very  untidy  but  very  cheerful,  to  eat 
the  neglected  meal. 

"  Why,  Miriam,  whatever  have  you  been  doing  ? 
Your  hair  is  very  untidy-like,"  said  Cochrane,  who 
kept  a  stern  eye  on  the  personal  appearance  of  her 
boarder. 

"  Oh,  I  know.     Yes,  I  am  late." 

Cochrane  pushed  in  a  few  protruding  hairpins,  and 
remarked  that  she  was  glad  to  see  her  look  so  cheerful 
again. 

"  My  book  has  moved  on,"  said  Miriam  in  explana- 
tion. She  sat  down  and  gulped  the  tepid  soup,  quite 
unconscious  of  its  tepidity. 

"Oh,  that's  it,  is  it?"  said  Cochrane.  "Well,  I'm 
glad  to  hear  it;  after  you're  done  with  dinner,  maybe 
you  can  wash  the  streaks  of  lead  pencil  off  your  face ; 
they're  no  improvement." 

Miriam  did  not  pay  much  attention  to  such  details, 
however,  for  many  days  to  come.  She  was  terribly 
afraid  that  the  happy  mood  would  fail  her;  she  must 
make  the  most  of  the  golden  days  when  they  were 
with  her. 

"  It's  just  going  too  well,"  she  sometimes  thought. 
She  wrote  to  Courteis  unceremoniously,  asking  for  a 
holiday. 

"  You  had  better  grant  it  me,  for  I  shall  take  it 
if  you  don't,"  she  added.  The  letter  pleased  Courteis 
more  than  she  knew. 

But  when  at  last  the  book  was  done,  rewritten, 
corrected  and  sent  off,  there  came  a  terrible  pause  in 
her  life;  it  felt  like  the  day  after  some  one  has  died 
in  a  house. 

21  317 


THE     LADDER 

"  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself,"  she  said. 
She  did  not  feel  any  wish  to  work,  yet  she  wearied 
without  employment. 

"  If  you  take  my  advice,"  said  Cochrane,  "  you'll 
take  a  change  down  to  Hindcup  and  see  your  rela- 
tions." She  stopped  by  the  window,  as  she  spoke,  to 
adjust  the  blind  and  to  look  out. 

"  There's  a  gentleman  at  the  door  in  a  hansom," 
she  said.  "  It  must  be  some  one  to  see  you." 

"  What  is  he  like  ? "  Miriam  asked,  from  her 
chair  by  the  fire;  she  felt  a  very  languid  interest  in 
him. 

"  Gray  hair,  stoops  a  bit  from  the  shoulder,  and 
worried-like,"  Cochrane  reported. 

"  Oh,  that's  Mr.  Courteis  himself ;  I  expect  he  has 
come  to  speak  to  me  about  my  book,"  said  Miriam, 
her  interest  aflame  again. 

"  I'll  be  off  to  the  kitchen  then,"  quoth  Cochrane. 
"  Gavina  is  never  the  worse  of  a  looking  after,  and 
I  won't  interrupt  your  conversation." 

Miriam  at  once  conjectured  that  there  must  be 
something  wrong  with  the  book,  and  steeled  herself 
to  bear  a  stringent  criticism. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Courteis,  is  it  deplorably  bad  ? "  she 
asked  him  as  he  came  in. 

"  Which  ? — the  book  ?  I  haven't  come  about  that," 
Courteis  said.  He  looked  very  grave. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  she  said,  wondering  what 
his  business  could  possibly  be. 

Courteis  sat  down,  felt  in  his  pocket,  and  took  out 
a  telegram,  rubbed  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  and  said 
nothing. 


TO     THE     STARS 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  Miriam  asked.  "Has 
anything  happened  ?  " 

Courteis  still  hesitated.  He  began  to  speak  and 
could  not. 

"  I've  had  a  telegram — several  telegrams.  The  fact 
is  it's  poor  Herman,"  he  blurted  out  at  last. 

"  What  ?  Please  tell  me  right  out  what  it  is !  "  she 
said. 

"He  is  ill,  very  ill;  very  unlikely  to  recover;  he 
wishes  you  to  come  and  see  him." 

"  Oh,"  said  Miriam.  Her  face  whitened,  but  it 
hardened,  too,  and  in  a  minute  she  added :  "  His  wife 
is  the  person  to  go  to  him  if  he  is  so  ill." 

"  His  wife !  "  Courteis  exclaimed.  "  Good  Lord ! 
it's  his  wife  who  has  done  it;  she  shot  him  on  the 
steps  of  the  Opera  House  in  Paris  yesterday." 

Miriam  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  She  could  not  speak,  she  could  not 
think ;  the  whole  world  had  suddenly  become  black  to 
her.  Courteis,  too,  sat  silent  for  a  minute  or  two, 
then  he  touched  her  arm. 

"  He  wants  you.  Won't  you  go  and  see  him?  I'll 
take  you  across  to  Paris  if  you  will  come." 

She  uncovered  her  eyes  and  stared  at  him  blankly. 

"  But  he — Herman — isn't  dying,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper. 

Courteis  shook  his  head. 

"  I  gather  that  he  is.  Lord !  what  a  waste  of  good 
things ! " 

"  Could  that  vivid  spirit  ever  die  ?  "  she  asked  slowly. 
He  glanced  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  That's  as  people  believe,"  he  said.  "  But  this 
319 


doesn't  seem  to  be  the  time  for  speculations  on  im- 
mortality; the  body  is  mortal  only  too  surely.  Are 
you  coming  to  Paris  with  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam,  rising  from  her  chair  as  she 
spoke.  "  I'll  go  and  get  ready  at  once ;  I'll  go  with 
you  whenever  you  like." 

Courteis  only  waited  to  arrange  the  details  of  the 
journey  with  her ;  then  she  went  to  find  Cochrane  and 
tell  her  of  this  intended  departure.  She  listened 
quietly,  her  hand  on  the  girl's  shoulder. 

"  There  now,"  she  said ;  "  it's  the  end  of  a  long 
temptation — if  it  is  the  end." 

They  arrived  in  Paris  that  night  and  drove  straight 
to  the  hotel  where  Herman  lay.  Courteis  went  to  get 
the  last  report  of  his  condition  and  came  with  it  to 
Miriam. 

"  He  is  likely  to  live  for  a  day,  or  perhaps  two ; 
and  he  wishes  to  see  you  to-night.  You  must  take 
some  food  first  and  then  go  up  to  see  him,"  he  told  her. 

Miriam  did  not  want  the  food ;  but  she  took  it  with- 
out protest,  and  then  went  with  Courteis  along  the 
corridors  to  Herman's  rooms.  His  servant  opened 
the  door  to  them  and  led  them  into  a  sitting  room. 

"  I'll  wait  here  if  you  go  and  see  him,"  Courteis 
whispered. 

She  followed  the  servant  into  the  other  room.  It 
was  dark,  except  for  a  little  shaded  lamp  which  stood 
beside  the  bed  on  which  Herman  lay. 

"  This  is  the  lady  who  has  come  from  England,  sir," 
the  man  said ;  and  both  he  and  the  nurse,  who  rose  from 
her  seat  by  the  bedside,  looked  curiously  at  Miriam. 

"She  has  come?  Bring  her  here,  Charles,"  said 
320 


TO     THE     STARS 

Herman.  His  voice  was  little  changed;  every  into- 
nation of  it  was  familiar  to  her.  She  drew  nearer  to 
the  circle  of  dim  light  and  stood  beside  him. 

"  I  am  here,  Herman,"  she  said.  The  servant  man 
and  the  nurse  went  out  together  into  the  room  where 
Courteis  sat,  and  they  were  left  alone. 

As  she  stood  there,  Miriam  noticed  all  the  ridiculous 
luxury  of  Herman's  surroundings — the  lace-trimmed 
pillows  he  lay  upon,  the  silk  shirt  he  wore,  the  em- 
broidered sheets  that  covered  the  bed;  she  was  far 
from  Hindcup  that  night,  she  thought,  with  a  sudden 
flicker  of  a  smile  across  her  grave  lips.  But  the 
smile  died  away  as  she  looked  again.  Herman  lay 
there  straight  and  rigid  as  if  he  were  carved  out  of 
stone;  he  did  not  stir  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  only 
turned  his  great  black  eyes  to  gaze  up  at  her. 

"  Sit  down,  Miriam,"  he  said.  "  There,  beside  me, 
and  put  your  hand  in  mine,  for  I  cannot  move." 

She  did  as  he  directed,  and  waited  that  he  should 
speak  again. 

"  So  this  is  the  end  of  me,"  he  said.  "  I  lie  here  to 
realize  it ;  by  to-morrow  perhaps  I  am  not  here ;  all  the 
skill  gone  from  this  hand  you  hold;  gone  where? 
My  God,  Miriam,  I  am  not  dull,  I  have  much  to  spec- 
ulate upon ! " 

"  Are  you  afraid  ?  "  she  asked,  in  an  awed  voice. 
Herman  smiled. 

"No,  no;  why  should  I  fear?  I  have  none,  only 
a  great  curiosity  fills  me,  and  a  vast  regret." 

"  Regret  ?  "  she  questioned. 

"  To  leave  the  brave  world  so  soon,  the  wonderful 
world." 

321 


THE     LADDER 

His  eyes  closed,  and  he  lay  still ;  but  Miriam  felt 
a  strange  thrill  pass  down  the  hand  she  held  in  hers; 
as  if,  she  thought,  the  hand  tried  to  speak. 

Herman  opened  his  eyes  again  after  a  little. 

"  Have  you  finished  your  book  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes;  just  finished  it;  but  what  does  that  matter?  " 
she  answered. 

"  I  am  glad  to  know ;  I  hindered  it  long.  I  wish 
you  a  hundred  felicities." 

"  O  Herman !  "  she  cried,  with  a  sudden  uncon- 
trollable burst  of  tears.  "  Felicity  isn't  for  me ;  what 
do  I  care  for  that  wretched  book  ?  I  want  to  see  you 
live ;  that  is  all  I  care  about." 

Again  she  felt  that  strange  tremor  pass  down 
through  the  lifeless  hand  she  held;  but  he  did  not 
speak.  She  was  beside  herself  with  grief,  with  pity 
for  his  weakness,  with  an  anguish  of  regret  and 
bitterness. 

Millions  of  men  and  women,  as  soulless  as  the  clods 
of  the  valley,  would  live  and  multiply  to  make  the 
world  duller  than  it  was;  and  Herman,  with  his  su- 
preme gifts,  his  exquisite  faculties,  lay  there  perishing 
before  her  eyes.  In  the  cities  where  he  had  played, 
perhaps  some  echo  of  his  music  might  linger  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  but  of  the  man  himself,  his  vividness 
and  charm,  the  delight  of  his  presence,  what  trace 
would  remain  for  the  time  to  come  ? 

"  O  Herman,  don't  die,  don't  leave  the  world !  " 
she  cried,  bending  down  over  him,  and  then  burying 
her  face  in  the  pillow  she  sobbed  aloud,  unable  to 
control  her  grief. 

"  My  poor  girl !  "  he  said  gently. 
322 


TO     THE     STARS 

With  a  great  effort  Miriam  steadied  herself. 

"  I'll  go  away  for  a  little,  till  I  feel  quieter,"  she 
said ;  "  then  I  will  come  back  again." 

She  went  into  the  room  where  Courteis  sat;  the 
nurse  stood  there  talking  to  him ;  she  turned  at  once 
to  ask  if  anything  was  wanted  in  the  sick  room. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  go  there  for  a  little,  till 
I  feel  calmer,"  Miriam  explained.  She  sat  down  on 
the  sofa,  and  leaned  her  head  back  against  the  cush- 
ions. Courteis  came  and  sat  beside  her;  he  looked 
sharply  at  her. 

"  Did  you  hear  that  his  wife  had  killed  herself 
also  ?  "  he  asked. 

She  sat  forward,  gazing  at  him,  trembling  with  agi- 
tation. 

"Is  it  really  true?"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  quite  true.  Poor  fellow,  rid  of  her  too  late, 
I  fear."  Miriam  did  not  answer;  she  sat  with  her 
head  bowed,  and  said  nothing.  At  last  Courteis  broke 
the  silence: 

"  Make  him  live,"  he  said.  "  Go  and  ask  him  to 
stay  for  you;  it's  my  belief  that  the  soul  commands 
the  body  more  than  it  appears  to  do.  Tell  him  any- 
thing you  like,  so  you  only  make  him  stay !  " 

Miriam  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  tell  him  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  That  his  wife  is  gone,  that  you  will  marry  him," 
Courteis  said  bluntly.  "  I've  known  good  news  snatch 
people  from  the  very  gates  of  death." 

"  Mr.  Courteis,  you  have  been  very  kind  to  me," 
Miriam  said,  "  but  I  can't  let  you  talk  to  me  like  this. 
Do  you  think  it's  decent  to  speak  of  the  death  of  a 

323 


THE     LADDER 

man's  wife  as  '  good  news  '  ? — a  dreadful  death  like 
that,  too,  however  little  he  cared  for  her  ?  " 

"  In  some  circumstances,  I  do." 

"  Well,  I  do  not,"  said  she. 

Courteis  rose  and  stood  before  her. 

"  I've  a  right  to  my  opinions,  and  a  right  to  practice 
them  too.  I'll  take  the  risk  on  myself,  and  tell  him,  if 
you  won't.  I  know  more  of  his  temperament  than  a 
dozen  doctors  and  nurses." 

There  was  about  Courteis  a  sort  of  callousness,  a 
disbelief  in  those  primary  moralities  by  which  the 
world  is  kept  going,  that  revealed  itself  sometimes  in 
a  startling  way.  Just  now  he  did  not  seem  to  be 
shocked  by  the  tragic  end  of  Herman's  wife ;  he  re- 
garded it  only  as  a  possible  benefit  to  Herman,  as  a 
good  riddance  of  useless  lumber. 

"  I  ask  you  again,  will  you,  or  will  you  not,  tell 
him  this  ? "  he  asked  impatiently,  tapping  the  polished 
floor  with  his  foot  as  he  spoke. 

"  No,  I  will  tell  him  nothing  about  it,"  she  answered. 

Courteis  turned  and  walked  across  to  the  door  which 
led  into  Herman's  room.  Without  even  knocking  at 
the  door,  he  opened  it  and  passed  in.  He  stood  still 
for  just  a  moment,  then  stepped  up  to  the  bed  and 
leaned  down,  bringing  his  lips  close  to  the  ear  of  the 
dying  man. 

"  Herman,  if  you  live,  Miriam  will  marry  you ;  your 
wife  is  dead,"  he  whispered. 

Then  without  waiting  to  see  the  effect  of  his  words, 
or  heeding  the  nurse's  hand  uplifted  in  horrified  pro- 
test, he  turned  away  and  came  back  to  where  Miriam 
sat  in  the  next  room. 

324 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  my  soul  is  free  of  responsi- 
bility. If  he  dies,  he  has  at  least  had  the  best  chance 
I  know  of  to  make  him  live." 

Miriam  did  not  look  up,  but  she  said : 

"  I  think  it  is  most  likely  that  you  have  killed  him." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  sit  up  all  night  ?  "  Courteis  said, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

"  Yes." 

Courteis  turned  the  shade  of  the  lamp  to  screen  her 
face  from  the  light,  asked  if  there  was  anything  else 
he  could  do  for  her,  and  then  selected  a  novel  from  a 
pile  that  lay  on  the  table,  and  went  away  to  his  own 
room.  Left  to  herself,  Miriam  looked  about  her.  The 
room  was  all  littered  with  Herman's  possessions — 
heaps  of  music  untidily  piled  together,  his  violin  case, 
the  cigarette  case  she  remembered  seeing  in  his  hand 
as  he  smoked  at  the  inn  door  long  ago;  letters,  some 
of  them  still  unopened,  newspapers,  telegrams,  novels — 
all  the  accumulations  of  a  busy  and  untidy  existence. 

As  she  sat  there  in  the  dim  light,  she  began  to  won- 
der if  it  were  all  a  dream.  Was  she  indeed  Miriam 
Sadler?  Her  old  life  seemed  so  distant  and  unreal. 
Somewhere  far  away  in  England,  there  was  a  little 
town  called  Hindcup-in-the-Fields,  where  a  family  of 
the  name  of  Pillar  lived,  and  where  years  ago,  in  an- 
other life  it  seemed,  a  girl  named  Miriam  Sadler  had 
also  dwelt.  Could  it  be  that  Hindcup  still  stood  there 
among  the  meadows,  its  church  tower,  old  and  gray, 
pointing  heavenward,  the  bells,  sweet  and  silvery, 
ringing  in  the  evening  air?  Did  the  Pillars  indeed 
walk  the  Hindcup  streets  still — unchanged,  self-cen- 
tered, self-delighted  as  of  yore?  While  for  herself, 

325 


THE     LADDER 

everything  seemed  changing,  dissolving  round  her, 
crumbling  away ;  no  foothold  anywhere.  An  hour 
passed  thus,  and  then  the  nurse  came  and  beckoned 
to  Miriam.  She  went  into  the  next  room  and  stood 
beside  the  bed  where  Herman  lay.  The  nurse  looked 
at  him  and  shook  her  head.  As  they  stood  there  the 
dying  man  opened  his  eyes  and  smiled,  a  strange,  won- 
dering smile ;  turned  his  head  to  one  side  as  if  listen- 
ing to  some  distant  sound,  and  then  with  a  quick 
movement  leaned  forward,  crying  out  with  an  in- 
describable accent  of  surprise,  "  I  hear !  I  hear ! — 
O  Miriam,  what  is  this  that  I  hear  ?  " 

The  nurse  sprang  forward  to  support  him,  and  he 
fell  back  against  her  arm. 

"  Ah !  let  me  help  him,"  Miriam  cried.  The  woman 
shook  her  head. 

"  Neither  you  nor  I  can  help  him  now,"  she  said, 
laying  him  back  gently  on  the  pillows.  For  a  few 
minutes  he  still  breathed.  Miriam  stood  silent  be- 
fore the  supreme  mystery  enacting  itself  there.  With 
averted  eyes,  and  scarcely  daring  to  breathe,  she 
awaited  the  final  moment. 

"  He  is  gone,"  the  other  woman  said  at  last,  and 
added  in  a  whisper,  "  I  wonder  what  he  heard  ?  " 

Miriam  knew.  She  stepped  forward  and  laid  her 
hand  on  Herman's  brow,  smoothing  out  the  lines  that 
pain  had  written  across  it.  Words  she  had  known 
from  childhood  sounded  in  her  ears,  words  of  awe  and 
import : 

"  Great  God!  what  do  I  see  and  hear? 
The  end  of  things  created." 

326 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER   XLV 

MIRIAM  made  a  good  deal  of  money  and  no  incon- 
siderable amount  of  fame  by  her  book.  It  was  a 
mystery  never  solved  in  Hindcup,  however,  why  she 
did  not,  or  rather  how  she  could  help  coming  down  to 
her  native  place,  to  flaunt  her  successes  before  the 
relations  and  friends  who  had  known  her  in  the  days 
of  her  obscurity. 

They  were  all  dying  to  see  her  now ;  Emmie  wrote, 
begging  her  to  come  and  stay  with  them. 

"  We  are  growing  out  of  all  acquaintance  now," 
she  said ;  "and  we  want  to  hear  all  about  you ;  we  read 
things  in  newspapers,  but,  of  course,  we  don't  quite 
believe  them ;  how  you  dined  with  this  and  that  per- 
son— people  you  never  heard  of,  I  am  sure.  If  half 
of  it  were  true,  it  must  make  you  want  to  go  on  writ- 
ing. Really,  it's  wonderful  how  you've  got  on,  and  it's 
so  well  you  have  this  to  amuse  you.  I  remember  I 
found  poker-work  a  resource  myself  before  I  mar- 
ried." 

The  candor  of  this  home  appreciation  made  Miriam 
smile;  but  she  did  not  accept  Emmie's  invitation. 

"  I  cannot  come  to  Hindcup  just  now,"  she  wrote, 
"  because  I  am  going  abroad  for  a  long  time  with  Delia 
Gore." 

"  Set  her  up !  Going  abroad  with  Miss  Gore,  in- 
deed !  There  won't  be  any  speaking  to  her  when  she 

327 


THE     LADDER 

returns,"  was  Aunt  Pillar's  comment  on  this  piece  of 
news.  It  was  commented  on  upstairs  at  the  Manor 
as  well  as  downstairs,  and  with  equal  severity : 

"  Do  you  know,  Samuel,  that  Delia  is  taking  that 
curious  Miriam  Sadler  abroad  with  her?"  said  Lady 
Joyce.  "  Of  course  she  has  made  quite  a  name  for 
herself  with  this  book;  but  she  is  Mrs.  Pillar's  niece 
just  as  surely  as  she  used  to  be,  and  it  seems  a  little 
strange,  does  it  not  ?  " 

"  Not  a  little,"  puffed  Sir  Samuel ;  "  but  the  Gores 
always  had  curious  views  about  things — revolutionary, 
I  call  them ;  would  upset  the  whole  order  of  things  if 
we  all  practiced  them." 

When,  at  the  end  of  another  year,  Miriam  still  de- 
clined to  return  to  Hindcup,  the  cousins  were  angry. 

"  I  don't  suppose  we  are  fine  enough  for  her  now," 
Maggie  Broadman  said,  tossing  her  head.  "  It  has 
turned  out  as  Aunt  Pillar  said  it  would ;  she  has  been 
going  about  too  much  with  those  Gores." 

"  And  making  a  lot  of  money  is  spoiling  her,  too," 
Emmie  suggested.  "  Sydney  says  it  isn't  natural 
for  women  to  be  independent.  I  daresay  she  gives 
herself  great  airs  with  it  all  now." 

But  when  at  long  last  Miriam  returned  to  Hindcup, 
the  cousins  were  forced  to  confess  that  all  their  con- 
jectures had  been  false:  she  had  none  of  the  "airs" 
they  had  hoped  to  observe  in  her;  she  seldom  men- 
tioned the  Gores ;  and  indeed  Emmie  had  to  screw  out 
any  information  about  them  by  a  series  of  direct 
questions. 

"  Miriam,  did  you  see  anything  of  that  brother  of 
Miss  Gore's?" 

328 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  Yes,  I  saw  him." 

"  When,  then  ?    Was  he  abroad,  too  ?  " 

"  He  came  to  Italy  for  a  few  weeks  when  we  were 
there." 

"  Then  he  isn't  married  yet  ?  Aunt  Pillar  said  he 
was  going  to  be  married." 

"  No,  he  is  not  married." 

"  Why  not,  then  ?    Is  he  still  engaged  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not." 

"  O  Miriam,  how  provoking  you  are !  Why  did  he 
break  it  off?  Surely,  you  know." 

"  I  believe  they  quarreled ;  the  reason  why  most  en- 
gagements are  broken  off." 

"  What  did  they  quarrel  about,  though  ?  Has  she 
married  some  one  else,  or  what  ?  " 

"  Really,  Emmie,  I  didn't  catechise  Mr.  Gore  as  you 
catechise  me,"  said  Miriam,  impatient  of  her  ques- 
tioning; and  Emmie  retorted  that  she  never  had  been 
like  other  women,  with  a  natural  interest  in  love 
affairs. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  lived  as  long  as  you  did  with  them 
and  not  found  out  all  about  that,"  she  said ;  "  but  I 
believe  you  know  more  than  you  say."  Which  was 
probably  true. 

Miriam,  it  must  be  confessed,  looked  much,  much 
older.  She  had  to  undergo  a  fire  of  criticism  on  this 
point  from  all  her  relations. 

"  Well  now,  Miriam,  I  must  say  you  look  your  age ; 
and  more,"  was  Aunt  Pillar's  plain-spoken  verdict 
when  she  beheld  her  niece  for  the  first  time.  A  family 
dinner  at  Maggie  Broadman's  was  the  occasion ;  all  the 
cousins  were  there — Emmie  and  Dr.  Pratt,  Matilda 

329 


THE     LADDER 

and  her  husband,  Grace,  the  (alas!)  still  unmated  one, 
Timothy,  and  Aunt  Pillar. 

Miriam  had  never  seen  Timothy  since  that  evening 
which  now  seemed  so  long  ago,  the  evening  at  the  inn 
in  Hampshire.  A  stab  seemed  to  go  right  through  her 
heart  as  she  took  his  fat  red  hand  at  the  moment  of 
greeting.  Why  should  this  big,  common  lump  of  clay 
still  cumber  the  ground,  and  Herman  be  gone  from 
the  world  ?  She  gave  such  a  shiver  that  Maggie  bade 
her  come  nearer  the  fire,  as  if  that  could  warm  her! 
Timothy,  too,  as  he  shook  hands  with  his  cousin  had 
a  vision  of  that  strange  scene  at  the  inn,  a  vision 
which  he  tried  to  forget.  Some  rumor  of  Herman's 
death  had  penetrated  to  Hindcup,  but  that  Miriam  had 
gone  to  see  him  had  never  been  revealed  by  Cochrane's 
folded  lips. 

"  We  are  all  quite  afraid  of  our  famous  cousin," 
quoth  Timothy,  with  attempted  jocularity,  and  Aunt 
Pillar  took  another  long  stare  at  Miriam  through  her 
spectacles. 

"  Famous  or  not,"  she  said,  "  you've  gone  off  a  lot, 
for  a  woman  of  your  age." 

"  You  forget  how  old  I  am  getting,"  Miriam  said. 
But  in  Hindcup  circles  any  open  mention  of  a  woman's 
age  is  considered  a  heinous  transgression.  On  all 
sides  there  was  a  chorus  of: 

"  Hush,  hush,  Miriam !  Fie,  Miriam !  We  don't 
mention  the  age  of  ladies." 

"  Oh,  do  remember  you're  shaming  us  all  when  you 
speak  that  way ! "  And  from  Grace,  the  spinster, 
came  a  pained  giggle  and  a  cry  of  "  I  never  speak 
about  my  age !  " 

330 


TO     THE     STARS 

Fortunately  the  dinner  bell  rang  at  this  moment  and 
created  a  welcome  diversion. 

Miriam  sat  between  Mr.  Broadman  and  Aunt  Pillar, 
a  target  for  their  remarks. 

"  Well,  I've  read  your  book,"  Aunt  Pillar  began, 
between  great  spoonfuls  of  soup,  sucked  in  with  great 
appreciation ;  "  I've  read  your  book.  When  I've  heard 
that  all's  well  with  the  dinner  at  the  Manor,  you  may 
say  my  day's  work  is  done,  and  I  have  an  hour  of  quiet 
(I'll  thank  you  for  another  helping  of  that  soup,  Mag- 
gie; it's  excellent).  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  there's 
generally  a  free  hour  in  the  evening,  and  though  I 
generally  reckon  it  a  waste  of  time  to  take  a  book,  I 
made  an  exception  and  read  yours.  Her  ladyship 
asked  me  herself  had  I  read  it.  It  was  wonderful  she 
should  take  any  notice  of  it,  I  thought ;  so  I  bought  it. 
'  Yes,'  I  said,  '  if  her  own  fam'ly  won't  buy  her  books, 
who  will?'  So  I  bought  it,  though  I  considered  it 
dear." 

"  I'm  sure  it  is,"  the  author  admitted,  "  for  all  there 
is  in  it." 

"  Well,  of  course,  being  written  by  you,  it  interested 
us,"  Aunt  Pillar  said,  meaning  to  be  genial,  "  but  no 
doubt  it  wouldn't  have  so  much  interest  for  other 
people." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  clasping  her  fat  hands 
over  her  satin-clad  person. 

"  What's  coming,  Maggie  ? "  she  asked.  "  I've 
really  done  so  well  with  that  soup,  I  hope  it's  some- 
thing light." 

"  Quite  light,  aunt ;  only  roast  pork,"  said  Maggie ; 
and  no  one  seemed  to  question  the  truth  of  the  reply. 

331 


THE     LADDER 

"  I'm  very  fond  of  pork,  but  you  should  have  warned 
me,  my  dear;  it's  scarcely  doing  it  justice  to  have  two 
platefuls  of  that  ox-tail  beforehand.  Well,  as  I  was 
saying,  Miriam,  that  book  interested  me  because  you 
wrote  it ;  I  wondered  where  you  learned  many  a  thing 
there  was  in  it ;  it  isn't  as  if  you  were  a  young  woman 
of  any  experience." 

Miriam  attempted  no  explanation,  and  here  Emmie, 
from  across  the  table,  struck  in: 

"  We  bought  a  copy,  too,  and  Sydney  read  it  aloud 
to  me ;  but  really  there  was  a  lot  of  it  we  didn't  under- 
stand. There  were  so  many  strange  ideas  in  it ;  where 
did  you  get  them  ?  I  suppose  you  got  them  from  these 
Gores  that  you  think  so  much  of?  " 

"  The  Gores  are  coming  to  the  Manor  next  week, 
did  you  know  ?  "  Aunt  Pillar  asked.  She  had  finished 
the  roast  pork,  wiped  her  glistening  lips  with  the  ex- 
treme end  of  her  table  napkin,  and  now  leaned  back 
to  rest  from  her  labors  and  cast  a  questioning  glance 
at  the  sideboard  to  see  what  the  next  course  was 
to  be. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Miriam. 

"  Perhaps  her  ladyship  may  ask  you  to  tea  while 
they  are  there;  there's  no  saying  but  she  might.  It 
would  be  a  great  honor,"  said  Aunt  Pillar. 

"  I  hope  not ;  I  wouldn't  in  the  least  care  to  go," 
said  Miriam  inadvertently. 

"  Not  care  to  go !  "  Aunt  Pillar  echoed. 

"  Well,  honestly,  Aunt  Pillar,  Sir  Samuel  and  Lady 
Joyce  have  always  seemed  to  me  very  ordinary,  rather 
tiresome  sort  of  people,"  said  Miriam,  fool  that  she 
was. 

332 


TO     THE     STARS 

Aunt  Pillar  turned  right  round  in  her  seat  to  take 
a  good  look  at  her  niece. 

"  Well,  if  that's  all  your  travels  have  taught  you, 
it's  a  pity  you  went  on  them ;  to  call  the  fam'ly  at  the 
Manor  ordinary !  "  Her  face  flushed  with  anger  at 
the  impertinence  of  the  word. 

Miriam  was  anxious  to  justify  herself ;  she  could  not 
realize  that  it  was  impossible  for  Aunt  Pillar  to  see 
things  as  she  saw  them. 

"  I  have  come  to  see  that  it  is  what  people  are  in 
themselves  that  makes  them  worth  knowing,  not  their 
position,"  she  said ;  "  and  once  or  twice  at  the  Gores  I 
have  met  Lady  Joyce  and  Sir  Samuel,  and  they  did 
not  seem  to  have  anything  new  or  interesting  to  say, 
and  they  did  not  seem  to  be  interested  in  anything  ex- 
cept their  own  little  bit  of  the  world ;  that  was  what  I 
meant  by  calling  them  ordinary." 

But  Aunt  Pillar  was  not  to  be  appeased.  Long  ago 
she  had  formed  her  estimate  of  her  niece,  and  time  was 
only  bearing  it  out  now. 

"  I  shall  be  very  thankful  if  I  don't  live  to  be 
ashamed  of  her,"  she  had  said  to  Alan  Gore  years  ago ; 
now  she  felt  that  the  words  had  been  prophetic:  she 
was  ashamed  of  Miriam.  Always  an  enigma  to  her 
relations,  she  was  now  an  impossible  problem  to  them, 
a  problem  that  Aunt  Pillar  for  one  frankly  gave  up 
trying  to  solve,  from  the  hour  she  heard  the  family  at 
the  Manor  called  ordinary. 


22  ,      333 


THE     LADDER 


CHAPTER   XLVI 

MIRIAM  had  come  to  Hindcup  as  the  guest  of  Em- 
mie and  Dr.  Pratt,  so  it  was  in  their  company  that  most 
of  her  time  was  spent.  The  house  faced  southward 
and  streetward,  commanding  in  this  way  all  the  sun- 
shine and  gossip  that  was  going ;  it  was  not  one  of  the 
old  houses,  nor  one  of  the  aggressively  new  ones,  but 
a  middle-aged  building,  square,  solid,  and  painted 
white,  so  that  it  shone  from  afar  among  the  dingier 
houses  of  the  straggling  uphill  street.  A  trimly  kept 
garden,  with  a  straight  path  running  through  it  up 
to  the  door,  separated  the  house  from  the  road ;  this 
path  offered  good  opportunities  to  Emmie's  gossip- 
loving  soul,  for  from  a  vantage  ground  behind  the 
Venetian  blinds  she  could  observe  everyone  who  came 
up  to  her  husband's  surgery  as  well  as  most  of  the 
passers-by  in  the  street.  The  drawing-room  window 
looked  out  across  the  garden  to  the  road,  and  while 
sitting  at  the  window  you  felt  as  if  you  were  camped 
on  the  roadside.  This  feeling  of  publicity  which 
would  have  been  a  trial  to  most  people  was  Emmie's 
chiefest  joy. 

"  Isn't  it  delightful  seeing  everything  that  goes  on  ?  " 
she  would  say.  "  Really,  I  waste  my  time  at  this  win- 
dow !  "  She  did  indeed ;  but  what  was  more  provok- 
ing, she  wasted  the  time  of  other  people.  Miriam  had 
brought  a  lot  of  books  down  from  town,  hoping  to  get 

334 


TO     THE     STARS 

them  read  in  "  the  quiet  of  the  country  " ;  though  she 
might  have  known  better. 

"  Miriam !  Stop  reading  for  a  minute  and  look  at 
Fanny  Jones's  new  hat !  " 

Miriam  would  glance  up  and  murmur  a  half-hearted 
comment  on  the  hat.  Then  two  or  three  minutes  of 
silence  would  follow,  till  Emmie  saw  fresh  subject  for 
interest : 

"  There's  Abbot's  cart  stopping  at  Mrs.  Hobbes's 
door;  look,  he's  taking  in  a  small  sirloin.  T  am  glad 
they  can  afford  sirloin,  I'm  sure." 

Another  silence ;  then  in  a  whisper,  though  why  Em- 
mie thought  it  better  to  interrupt  by  a  whisper,  it  is 
difficult  to  imagine. 

"  Miriam !  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  again,  but  if  you 
look  up  quickly  you'll  see  Louie  Evans  going  into  the 
bank ;  she  is  flirting  with  Tom  Beech ;  I  daresay  they'll 
make  it  out  before  next  year." 

Finally  Miriam  laid  aside  all  pretense  of  reading, 
and  drew  her  chair  frankly  up  to  the  windows  to  watch 
the  passers-by — it  was  better  than  being  forced  to  do 
it  against  her  will. 

As  she  sat  thus,  listening  to  Emmie's  remarks,  a 
very  absurd  thing  happened,  which  happens  oftener 
than  any  of  us  are  aware  of :  both  these  young  women 
were  pitying  each  other  profoundly !  Miriam  pitied 
her  cousin  because  her  whole  life  seemed  to  consist 
of  nothing  but  this  sort  of  peddling  interest  in  the  af- 
fairs of  other  people;  while  Emmie's  pity  for  Miriam 
was  stirred  by  the  thought  that  she  had  no  husband, 
or  house  of  her  own,  or  any  prospect  of  getting  either, 
"only  ideas  and  unsatisfactory  things  like  that,"  as  she 

335 


THE     LADDER 

contemptuously  phrased  it.  Miriam  was  longing  to  be 
back  in  London,  busy  with  work  she  loved,  and  meet- 
ing people  who  interested  her;  while  Emmie  in  her 
really  kind  little  heart  kept  hoping  that  her  cousin  was 
not  feeling  too  envious  of  her  life  with  Sydney  Pratt 
in  Hindcup ! 

"  She  can't  help  envying  me,  Sydney,"  she  would 
say  to  Dr.  Pratt,  "  seeing  me  with  you,  and  my  house, 
and  everything." 

Dr.  Pratt,  however,  was  not  quite  certain  about 
this. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  either  I  or  my  house  would 
satisfy  her,"  he  said  darkly. 

Once  every  week  Emmie  had  what  she  called  an  "  at 
home  "  day.  She  spent  the  morning  in  dusting  the 
drawing-room  and  "  arranging  the  flowers."  By  this 
last  expression  she  meant  gathering  close  off  by  the 
head  a  profusion  of  blossoms,  and  packing  them  tightly 
into  fancy  vases.  Lunch  was  always  rather  hurried 
on  the  "  at  home  "  day,  and  immediately  after  the  meal 
Emmie  ran  upstairs  to  dress.  Half  an  hour  later  she 
came  down  to  the  newly  dusted  drawing-room  wearing 
her  last  "  Sunday  "  dress ;  then  drawing  her  chair  up 
to  the  window,  she  adjusted  the  blind  so  that  she  might, 
without  being  seen,  T>e  able  to  see  who  was  coming  in. 
By  three  o'clock  Hindcup  visitors  began  to  arrive,  and 
at  half-past  three  Emmie  did  not  think  it  too  early  to 
offer  them  a  cup  of  tea.  This  was  brought  in,  ready 
poured  out  in  the  cups,  and  handed  round  by  the  hotly 
blushing  young  maidservant,  who  looked  as  if  she 
would  drop  the  heavy  tray  from  her  trembling  hands 
every  minute.  Emmie  then,  herself,  passed  round  a 

336 


TO     THE     STARS 

wicker  tea  stand  containing  a  plate  of  crumbly  bread 
and  butter,  and  another  plate  of  very  rich  plum  cake. 
As  each  visitor  departed,  she  ran  to  the  window,  and 
from  behind  the  blinds  watched  the  guest  go  down  the 
path  to  the  gate.  But  at  sight  of  another  guest  arriv- 
ing, she  would  skip  back  to  her  seat,  and  be  ready  to 
rise  from  it  in  well-feigned  surprise  when  the  visitor 
was  announced. 

Of  course  all  the  neighbors  came  to  see  Miriam, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hobbes,  just  as  of  old,  being  among  the 
first  to  arrive.  It  hurt  Miriam  to  notice  that  they 
were  a  little  in  awe  of  her;  she  did  not  like  to  see  it. 
Somehow  the  Hobbeses  did  not  seem  so  objectionable 
as  of  yore ;  for  memory,  like  a  bright  mist,  covers  up 
many  an  unlovely  object,  changing  and  sanctifying  it 
almost  beyond  recognition.  People  that  in  the  long 
ago  were  wearisome  and  distasteful  to  us,  are  changed 
by  time  and  distance  into  classic  figures  we  would  not 
willingly  miss  from  the  background  of  our  lives. 

Miriam  found  it  quite  pleasant  to  sit  and  listen  to 
Mrs.  Hobbes's  wandering  talk  on  domestic  affairs,  and 
Mrs.  Hobbes,  in  her  turn,  was  touched  by  the  sym- 
pathetic attention  shown  in  her  affairs.  She  laid  her 
hand  on  Miriam's  knee  a  trifle  timidly,  saying: 

"  I  was  so  afraid  to  come  to  see  you,  but  indeed 
I  need  not  have  been  afraid ;  I  think  you're  much  im- 
proved, my  dear." 

The  Broadmans  came  in  then,  and  Timothy ;  and  the 
little  room  was  quite  filled  up. 

Timothy  had  decided  he  must  try  to  efface  the  un- 
pleasant memory  that  he  felt  sure  still  lingered  in  his 
cousin's  mind.  He  came  and  sat  down  beside  her, 

337 


THE     LADDER 

balancing  one  of  Emmie's  uncomfortably  small  tea- 
cups in  his  large  red  hands,  and  began  to  try  to  be 
pleasant.  Mr.  Hobbes,  too,  drew  his  chair  up  to  the 
sofa  and  essayed  conversation.  But  just  as  Miriam 
was  wondering  what  she  would  say  to  them,  she  saw 
the  door  open  again,  and  heard  the  little  maidservant 
announce  in  her  frightened,  piping  voice: 
"  Mr.  Gore,  ma'am,  to  call  on  Miss  Sadler." 
There  was  a  moment  of  tense  silence.  Emmie  stood 
up,  not  very  sure  what  to  do  or  say,  and  Miriam 
struggled  out  of  her  corner  between  Timothy  and 
Mr.  Hobbes,  and  went  across  the  room  to  meet  her 
visitor. 

Emmie,  much  embarrassed,  begged  this  unexpected 
and  distinguished  visitor  to  sit  down  and  have  some 
tea.     The  tea  was  accepted,  but  the  plum  cake  was  re- 
fused, at  which  Emmie  repeated  several  times : 
"  Oh,  do  be  persuaded ;  let  me  persuade  you !  " 
Silence  had  fallen  among  the  other  guests ;  they  were 
all  listening  and  looking.     Miriam  had  a  sudden  mo- 
ment   of   intolerable    discomfort ;    everything    seemed 
wrong.     She  wished  Alan  Gore  had  not  come ;  it  would 
be  only  a  pain  to  see  him  here. 

But  the  next  minute  all  these  painful  feelings  dis- 
appeared, for  Alan  Gore  sat  down  and  began  to  talk 
to  Emmie  as  if  he  had  always  known  her,  and  Emmie 
seemed  to  forget  to  be  shy,  and  answered  his  remarks 
quite  coherently.  Timothy,  too,  drawn  as  if  by  a 
magnet,  was  coming  gradually  nearer  to  where  Gore 
sat,  till  suddenly  he  joined  in  the  conversation  with 
what  seemed  to  Miriam  a  surprisingly  intelligent  re- 
mark. 

338 


TO     THE     STARS 

It  was  the  old  story  of  the  man  who  carried  a  talis- 
man under  his  tongue.  Miriam  could  scarcely  be- 
lieve what  she  saw.  Without  apparent  effort,  Alan 
Gore  had  actually  beguiled  her  cousin  Timothy  into 
conversation  that  was  quite  interesting,  and  made  Em- 
mie forget  her  shyness  altogether;  she  remembered 
how  he  had  done  the  same  years  ago  with  her,  in  the 
library  at  Hindcup — how  her  shyness  and  constraint 
had  fallen  away,  and  she  had  blurted  out  all  her  raw 
young  ambitions  and  unremarkable  difficulties  to  him. 

Could  it  be  her  cousin  Timothy,  the  traveler  in 
wineglasses,  who  sat  there  talking  like  that?  Tim- 
othy, it  appeared  then,  had  thoughts — not  original 
ones  in  the  least,  but  quite  fairly  intelligent  thoughts — 
and  could  express  them,  too,  in  quite  respectable  lan- 
guage ! 

How  ashamed  she  felt  all  of  a  sudden ;  why  could 
she  not  find  this  great  secret  of  true  living  which  Alan 
Gore  had  the  key  to?  All  her  life  she  had  missed  it. 
She  could  enter  with  eager  sympathy  into  the  interests 
of  people  who  were  congenial  to  her;  but  from  those 
who  were  uncongenial  she  must  always  hold  herself 
aloof.  Once  again  Miriam  confessed  in  her  heart 
the  old  confession  that  she  was  "  all  wrong  some- 
where." 

In  ten  minutes  Alan  Gore  had  found  out  more  of 
the  nature  of  her  cousin  Timothy  than  she  had  been 
able  to  discover  in  all  the  years  of  her  life ;  and  Em- 
mie— Emmie  sat  there  telling  him  how  the  curate's 
wife  had  wanted  to  get  up  a  Reading  Society,  "  to  im- 
prove our  minds,  you  know,"  but  she  had  "  no  time  to 
read,"  and  "  did  he  think  reading  was  as  necessary  as 

339 


THE     LADDER 

clever    people    thought    it? — people    like    Miriam?" 
(That  was  another  stab  to  poor  Miriam.) 

By  some  matchless  art,  or  tact,  or  gift,  Alan  Gore 
drew  Emmie  and  Timothy  so  out  of  themselves  that 
their  conversation  was  entirely  natural ;  he  seemed  to 
be  able  to  get  at  that  core  of  reality  which  is  some- 
where to  be  found  in  the  dullest  natures,  and  arrived 
at  this,  past  all  the  unrealities,  he  discovered  some  in- 
terest in  them  almost  in  spite  of  themselves. 

Miriam  drew  her  chair  in  beside  Emmie.  She,  too, 
wanted  to  join  in  their  conversation.  But  in  a  mo- 
ment Emmie  and  Timothy  shut  up  like  oysters.  Tim- 
othy pulled  at  his  watch  and  declared  that  he  must  be 
off  to  catch  a  train,  and  Emmie  suddenly  reassumed 
her  constrained  manner  and  began  to  apologize  pro- 
fusely to  Alan  Gore  for  the  fact  that  she  must  go  and 
speak  to  Mrs.  Hobbes  at  the  other  side  of  the  room. 

"  Do  you  see,"  Miriam  said,  when  Emmie  had  gone, 
"  I  can't  do  it.  I  can't  get  on  to  the  right  lines  with 
them,  try  as  I  may." 

Gore  put  down  the  toy  teacup  with  which  Emmie 
had  burdened  him,  and  looked  at  her.  His  pleasant 
eyes  laughed,  though  he  kept  unsmiling  lips. 

"  Why,"  he  said,  "  it  seems  to  me  that  your  relations 
are  exceedingly  easy  to  get  on  with.  I  wish  all  of 
mine  were  as  easy."  He  paused  and  smiled,  adding: 
"  I  wonder  now  if  you  would  get  on  better  with  my 
people  than  I  do,  and  vice  versa?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  I  should.  I  very  seldom  get 
on  well  with  anyone,  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Miriam, 
who  was  suffering  a  great  discouragement  just  at  that 
moment. 

340 


TO     THE     STARS 

"  I  think  too  much  Hindcup  must  be  the  reason  for 
this  low  view  of  things,"  said  he.  "  What  do  you  do 
all  day  here  ?  " 

"  Very  little ;  which  perhaps  accounts  for  the  de- 
spondency." 

"  Do  you  not  go  out  in  the  fields  now,  as  you  used 
to  do?  I  remember — do  you  remember,  long  ago 
when  I  met  you  there,  and  you  asked  me  about  the 
books?" 

"  Remember  ?  O  Mr.  Gore,  how  could  I  forget  ? 
Life  only  began  for  me  with  those  books !  "  Miriam 
cried. 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  walk  there  to-morrow,  shall 
we  say  about  this  time  ?  "  Gore  said.  He  leaned  for- 
ward, looking  straight  at  her  as  he  spoke;  for  a 
moment  she  met  his  glance,  and  then  she  turned 
away. 

The  little  room  seemed  to  spin  round  and  round. 
Snatches  of  talk  between  Emmie  and  Mrs.  Hobbes 
floated  across  to  where  they  sat.  "  She,  now,  was 
what  I  would  call  a  thoroughly  well-trained  girl." 
..."  No,  Mrs.  Hobbes,  I  can't  say  I've  a  great  idea 
of  Abbot's  meat,"  etc.,  etc. 

Alan  Gore  rose  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Miriam: 

"  Shall  I  see  you  to-morrow,  then,  about  this  time  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  and  turned  away. 

"  Dear  me ! "  Emmie  exclaimed  as  the  door  closed 
behind  him,  "  I'd  no  idea  Mr.  Gore  was  like  that ;  he's 
very  agreeable.  I  wonder  what  ever  made  him  come 
in  this  afternoon?  I  was  quite  flustered,  for  Jemima 
gave  him  a  cup  of  tea  Mr.  Hobbes  had  refused,  so  I 

341 


THE     LADDER 

knew  it  must  have  been  cold.  Well,  it  was  very  polite 
in  him,  and  he  made  me  forget  all  about  his  being  so 
fine  and  well  known.  I  declare  I  said  a  lot  of  silly 
things  to  him,  now  I  come  to  remember  what  we  talked 
about." 


342 


TO     THE     STARS 


CHAPTER    XLVII 

"  I  AM  sure  I  don't  see  why  anyone  should  wish  to 
take  country  walks,"  Emmie  said  as  she  walked  down 
to  the  garden  gate  with  her  cousin  the  next  afternoon. 
"  It's  so  much  more  amusing  to  pop  in  to  tea  with  one's 
neighbors  than  to  tramp  over  these  damp  fields  you 
are  so  fond  of,  Miriam." 

"  I've  always  loved  the  fields,  Emmie,  and  you  know 
I  hate  going  out  to  tea,"  said  Miriam ;  but  her  excuse 
was  not  accepted. 

"  I  believe  that  about  not  going  out  to  tea  is  some- 
thing you  learned  from  the  Gores,"  she  said ;  "  it  isn't 
possible  that  anyone  can  really  dislike  tea  parties.  I 
believe  it's  a  fashion,  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  yet 
that  Mr.  Gore  didn't  seem  to  object  yesterday,  and  I'm 
sure  he  would  be  an  addition  to  any  party." 

Miriam  laughed  and  walked  away  down  the  street. 
She  passed  her  old  home,  and  stood  at  the  gate  for  a 
moment  to  look  in.  Behind  these  uninteresting  little 
windows  she  had  transacted  so  much  of  life!  The 
branches  of  the  elm  tree  still  scraped  against  the  sill 
of  her  bedroom  window  as  of  old ;  the  flowering  cur- 
rant bush  at  the  door  was  coming  out  and  she  smelled 
its  spicy  breath  that  she  used  to  love  in  childhood ;  she 
almost  expected  to  see  her  mother  come  to  the  door, 
watering-can  in  hand,  to  water  the  tulips  in  the  bor- 
der; but  another  face  looked  out  at  the  well-known 

343 


THE     LADDER 

door,  and  Miriam  walked  on  quickly,  with  that  feel- 
ing of  injury  we  feel  to  see  strangers  occupying  our 
old  homes.  Is  it  some  premonition  of  the  day  cer- 
tainly coming  for  each  of  us,  when  our  place  shall 
neither  know  us  nor  miss  us  more? 

She  walked  on,  past  The  Old  House  where  Miss 
Foxe  used  to  live.  Miss  Foxe  had  died  a  year  ago, 
and  the  house  was  shut  up  and  deserted-looking,  with 
closed  shutters  and  tags  of  last  year's  creeper  hanging 
untidily  from  the  walls. 

But  out  in  the  spring  meadows  there  was  no 
strangeness  or  desolation  to  face.  No  change  passes 
over  the  kindly  earth  from  year  to  year;  the  flowers 
and  grasses  we  knew  in  childhood  come  up  as  green 
and  fair  to-day  as  they  did  then. 

Miriam  knew  where  to  look  for  every  plant — some 
were  just  coming  up,  some  not  yet  in  blossom.  She 
remembered  where  a  plant  of  pink  primroses  used  to 
grow,  and  there  they  were,  punctual  to  the  season's 
call,  poking  up  through  the  moist  brown  earth.  As 
she  walked  along  the  little  meandering  path  that  led 
to  the  stile  where  she  had  sat  that  eventful  day  when 
she  met  Alan  Gore,  the  whole  scene  came  back  so 
vividly  to  her  mind  that  for  a  moment  she  wondered 
if  all  the  intervening  years  had  been  a  long  dream  that 
she  had  dreamed  sitting  there  on  the  stile.  Miriam 
had  heard  of  dreams  that  seemed  to  extend  over  eons 
of  time;  had  this  been  one  of  them?  Had  she  ever 
gone  to  London  to  visit  the  Gores?  Had  she  strug- 
gled and  failed,  and  struggled  again  and  succeeded? 
Had  poor  Herman  been  nothing  but  a  brilliant  phan- 
tasm, his  tragic  death  a  nightmare  bit  of  the  dream  ? 

344 


TO     THE     S 

Miriam  looked  down  at  her  dress;  it  was  a  hand- 
some, well-made  garment,  and  she  half  expected  to 
see  it  turn  into  the  blue  calico  she  used  to  wear.  She 
drew  off  her  gloves  and  fingered  them,  expecting  to 
see  their  soft  leathern  surface  change  into  the  well- 
remembered  white  cotton  glove  of  her  girlhood. 

But  far  less  believable  than  these  outside  things 
was  something  else :  Why  had  she  come  here  this  af- 
ternoon? Why  had  Alan  Gore  asked  her  to  meet 
him?  No;  the  past  with  all  its  pains  and  difficulties 
might  be  true,  but  this  could  be  nothing  but  some  curi- 
ous delusion  that  had  overtaken  her.  Perhaps  she 
had  dreamed  it  vividly  last  night?  Yet  it  wasn't  a 
dream  that  Alan  Gore  had  come  to  see  her  yesterday ; 
that  was  certain  enough;  it  was  his  asking  her  to 
meet  him  that  was  the  dream.  .  .  .  Miriam  leaned  back 
against  the  rail  of  the  stile  with  half-closed  eyes;  all 
round  her  the  spring  world  was  bursting  into  leaf  and 
blossom — stirring  and  stretching  itself  as  it  were,  after 
the  long  despair  of  winter.  The  air  was  full  of  the 
fragrance  of  young  leaves ;  in  the  blossoming  thickets 
the  birds  sang  loud  and  clear.  A  sense  of  renewal  was 
everywhere — grass  growing  fresh  and  green  out  of  the 
brown  earth ;  tender  shoots  appearing  from  the  dry, 
dead-looking  stumps  of  the  hedgerows  that  had  been 
ruthlessly  pruned  away;  sheets  of  blossom  covering 
the  thorn  bushes — everywhere  life  and  sap  and  strength 
— a  goodly  world. 

As  Miriam  sat  there  and  looked  and  listened,  some- 
thing of  this  spirit  of  renewal  seemed  to  waken  in  her 
heart.  For  as  we  die  many  deaths  before  the  last,  so 
by  gracious  processes  of  healing  the  spirit  may  be  born 

345 


THE     LADDER     TO     THE     STARS 

again  into  a  newer  and  brighter  life.  Miriam  looked 
back  across  the  dark  years  of  her  life,  much  as  one 
looks  back  at  a  thundercloud  which  has  rolled  away 
behind  one.  They  had  been  dark,  but  the  sun  was 
shining  overhead  now,  and  life  was  sweet  again.  She 
was  young  still,  in  spite  of  Aunt  Pillar's  plain  words 
to  the  contrary;  young  and,  yes,  happy.  The  word 
came  to  her  almost  as  a  surprise. 

Far  off  across  the  fields  Miriam  saw  Alan  Gore 
coming.  He  walked  quickly,  as  if  impatient  of  the  dis- 
tance to  be  got  over.  She  rose  to  meet  him;  but  a 
wave  of  joy,  a  premonition  of  happiness,  such  as  she 
had  never  dreamed  of,  held  her  silent. 


(i) 


THE   END 


346 


A  GREAT  FRENCH  DETECTIVE'S  ADVENTURES. 

The  Triumphs  of  Eugene  Valmont. 

By  ROBERT  BARR,  author  of  "The  Midst  of 
Alarms,"  etc.     Illustrated.     $1.50. 

"  The  most  marvellous  series  of  detective  adventures 
written  in  many  a  day." — St.  Louis  Republic. 

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"  Detective  adventures  and  good  ones,  too,  with  the 
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to  any  one  of  the  many  adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes." 

— Boston  Transcript. 

"Valmont  is  a  detective  of  an  entirely  new  stripe,  for 
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D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


"A  TALE  OF  OLD  EGYPT  AND  LITTLE  OLD  NEW  YORK/ 


The  False  Gods. 

By  GEORGE  HORACE  LORIMER,  author  of  "Let- 
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delicious  little  shivers  and  thrills." — Chicago  Daily  News. 

D.     APPLETON     AND    COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


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